Back in the day
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: John's drunk and some idiot's got himself high in the bathroom. It's a shame he's the only trainee doctor in the house. A Johnlock story set while John is at university and an AU in that this time Sherlock is the one who's a few years older and is trying to find something to keep his interest in London after getting bored and being thrown out of Uni.
1. The idiot in the bathroom

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!**

Background

This follows very roughly the same backgrounds I have given John in the Ava Watson verse.

John's parents divorced and his mum married again. John's step-father and step-brother were unhappy with Harry coming out and John would try to stand up for his older, difficult sister. John's father took custody of them after a fight that got out of hand but died a few months later in a car accident. John's mother divorced the step-father but she and her children never really clicked properly after that. John went into the army briefly as a teenager but came out again to study to be a doctor.

**Warnings**

**This fic contains graphic drug use and drug addiction, references to child abuse, difficult family life, sexual situations, violence and generally mature themes. I do try to veer away from angst but it does creep in, especially towards the end of the fic. Please note the rating!**

* * *

**The Idiot in the Bathroom**

The first time was during one of John's okay to drink days. He'd set it out clearly in his head; three days a week, no more and sure as hell no less. In fact he reckoned Harry (seasoned alcoholic at the age of twenty two) would have a hard time keeping up with most of his mates when they were on a proper bender.

"Oi, Watson?" Joe shouted from the doorway into the living room of (Oh God…whose house was he sitting in? Mike's? Matt's…something beginning with an M…maybe…) "You're gonna be a doctor right?"

John closed his eyes and immediately regretted it as the room spun wildly. Even though it was February of his first year at Uni he knew what this was leading to. Why was it that Uni students seemed to think that people who were training to be doctors were both absolutely able to fix anything and also not at all likely to go to their parents?

He really should spread the word of the hypocritic…hyportatic…that oath thing that would help in some way with his situation. Somehow.

God he was pissed.

"No." he said shaking his head, "No. I'm gonna be a…not doctor."

It didn't sound convincing even to his ears.

"I study English," he announced, chuffed to have remembered a subject.

Joe didn't look like he was buying it at all. "Yeah…look it's just a bit of sick. But…I don't deal with that and I don't want him choking on it, so just go and sort him out."

John pulled a face.

"It's good practice for you!" Andy shouted even though he was sitting almost right next to John.

Lurching to his feet John managed to glare at all of them. "This is why I should only go out with people on my course," he muttered stumbling over to where Joe stood.

"Don't need to know about your sex life John!" someone called.

Wankers.

Away from the booming music, John's head cleared a little as they went up the stairs.

"Look," Joe turned seeming a bit more serious, "you know my girlfriend Melanie."

Melanie…no… John shook his head and winced at the way his brain sloshed.

"Whose house this is?"

Oh! He could have sworn it was a guy's house. But John nodded as if he'd suspected it had been her house all along.

"Her sister does…" Joe shifted, "stuff."

John leaned against the wall, trying to focus. "Stuff?"

"Yeah," Joe was staring at him pointedly, "You know…_Illegal stuff._"

John scrapped a hand over his face, "Oh Christ, are you talking about drugs?"

"Don't be so square," Joe hissed. "Look, just make sure he doesn't need to go to the hospital. Her parents would freak."

John blinked, trying to keep up with the pronouns. "Who's _her_ again?"

"Just…do what you can." Joe muttered and shoved him in the direction of a second bathroom door.

There were two bathrooms? Huh.

John stumbled in and Joe slammed the door shut behind him.

On the floor by the toilet was a guy, a skinny looking guy with a head of bedraggled hair.

The place stunk of vomit.

John sighed and meandered his way over to kneel by the guy, then winced and flushed the toilet before he knelt down.

The guy didn't stir.

"Crap," John muttered and pressed two fingers to the guy's throat and then patted around.

Ok, so there was a pulse. It felt a bit quick in John's opinion but it wasn't really bad.

"Ok," John reached up and pulled a flannel off the side of the sink, knocking things over in the process. "Shit," he muttered and knelt up, straining his stomach and thighs to peer at what he was doing as he dampened the flannel.

Then he pulled the guy off from where he was hugging the toilet, onto the floor and stared.

Reaching over with the flannel, John half-heartedly wiped the left over vomit off the guys face. "You owe me." He muttered, "So, so much."

Was he meant to put him in the recovery position? Yeah…there was that thing about choking on vomit if he left him on his back.

The movements sobered John up a little. It was the first time he'd done it while his partner hadn't been trying to keep their eyes closed and not giggle. The seriousness of the situation made him focus a bit more.

Once finished he sat back and stood, splashing his face to try and wake himself up a little more.

Then promptly vomited in the toilet as well.

Fuck sakes!

It was about twenty minutes later when the door was flung open.

John stared up at the newcomer; tall, dark hair, pale skin and dressed in a very pretty shirt.

It looked silky.

John shook his head and managed to half-heartedly point, "Is that yours?" he asked, aiming at the still unconscious idiot. "Because if it is you owe me…" (what did he want?) "...crisps!"

The new comer stared at him with a raised eyebrow and shut the door behind him. "You are?"

"The idiot training to be a doctor." John leaned his head back against the wall. "And you are?"

"The one who had his drugs stolen by that idiot," came the snapped reply as the new guy dropped to his knees by the unconscious guy and started rooting through his pockets.

Oh!

"Well, if it helps," John heard himself say, "I don't think he had a very good time of it."

The stranger paused and looked over at him with a quirk of his lips, "It helps a little."

John nodded. "Good."

The guy huffed, "He's also an…acquaintance," he confessed looking disgruntled. "How long has he been out?"

"Before I got here. But he was doing a very good job of holding up the toilet." John informed him.

"Hardly surprising."

"So…you don't like him," John said.

Sharp, pale eyes clicked onto him. "Why would you say that?"

John shrugged. "I dunno. I think you're letting his head hit the bath."

Approval glinted. "I need him to pay the rent. He's going into banking."

"You should probably let him hit his head one more time then," John allowed.

A small chuckle echoed out. "Your name?"

"Uh…John." John nodded, pleased that he'd remembered it, "John Watson."

"And how much have you had to drink?"

John held up his thumb and forefinger, "Little bit," he confessed with a grin. "Sorry, you're here taking charge and I feel less inclined to be sober now."

"The party went a few minutes ago." The guy seemed to be studying unconscious guy…there were too many guys now. "You could come back with me. Sebastian has crisps somewhere in his cupboards."

John looked between the pair of them. "Yeah sure."

Walking to the new flat sobered John up quite considerably. To the point that when he had helped get Sebastian upstairs and into bed, he was suddenly overwhelmingly aware that he'd managed to get himself lost, cut off from friends and alone with a stranger who did drugs.

Not quite the night he'd been planning.

But he went to the bathroom, splashed his face again and swigged some mouthwash. It was startling how clear he suddenly felt.

He stopped short when he left the bathroom and saw the guy standing opposite, just watching him.

"Uh…so…what?" he asked, suddenly afraid that he'd got something on his face.

"You're less idiotic than your friends."

"That's…probably true." John acknowledged.

"You've been in the army."

John looked down at himself, "Yeah…how could you-"

"It didn't work out but you want to go back in…as a doctor."

"Am I being pranked?" John asked, squinting at the darkened shadows to work out if his mates could hide there.

"You're a virgin."

John's mouth dropped, "I…why would you-"

The guy pushed himself off the wall. "Why though…" he muttered as if to himself and John turned to follow as the guy circled him. "You aren't unattractive."

John squeaked; a stupid noise that was the only sound he felt capable of making.

"Want to lose it?"

"Lose what?" John was desperately trying to keep up with the circling and the conversation.

The guy raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." John nodded to himself as the meaning sunk in. "OH!" he yelped. "No…no that's…kind? Of you but no. Thank you though."

The guy looked amused. "Thank you?"

Flustered John shrugged, "I…is that not how you turn these things down?"

"You are getting more and more interesting by the second," the guy muttered as he resumed the circling and John gave up trying to turn with him. "It's not the homosexual aspect that has made you say no."

"Uh…I'm not gay." John's mind focused on the only things he was able to glean from that.

"Bisexual then."

"I…Look I don't think this is a good conversation-"

"Definitely bisexual." It sounded as if the guy was nodding. "You're less defensive about that. So…a family member then. They came out and it wasn't received very well."

"How the hell-"

"Exactly what is your objection to having an orgasm with me?"

John's mind went blank. "I…uh..an…" A sketchy image of that possibility floated in his head that was just really fucking awesome. "Uh…I don't even know your name."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John nodded, "Ok." Then he frowned as his mind couldn't seem to come up with the next reason. "I just don't think I'm a one night stand person."

"How do you know?"

"That's…a good point." That was a very good point. Why wasn't he doing this again? And oh god, when had Sherlock got so close?

Startled John stared up at the pale eyes and bloody stunning cheekbones and there wasn't a single bloody thing that wasn't looking good about this Sherlock Holmes right now.

"Why are you offering?" John asked suddenly.

The question clearly took Sherlock by surprise. "What?"

"Well…I mean you're…looking sober and I'm not really and you obviously have experience and I don't…at all. And you look good and I am so glad I used mouthwash before we had this conversation." Part of John winced in horror at what he has just said but he ploughed on nonetheless. "And I honestly have no clue why you'd want me anywhere near any part of you."

Sherlock scanned him, eyes lingering in odd places. "You really are very interesting," he said, almost to himself and then moved away. "Drink?"

John stared ahead and then turned to watch Sherlock walk to the kitchen. "Water," he replied, feeling a bit bemused by the whole thing. "So you only shag what you find interesting?"

Sherlock filled up a glass, "I only shag what looks to be a bit different."

"That's…possibly really insulting," John wandered over and accepted the cup as he collapsed into a chair.

"You're a good kind of different."

"So you do bad kinds of different?"

That vaguely amused smile was back. "In all sense of the word I suppose. I need the data."

John swallowed the water thoughtfully, "Is that like a weird science kink?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "You are very drunk," he decided. "Are you usually this frank when you're sober?"

John shook his head, "God no. I'm like a book. The closed kind," he tried to demonstrate with a hand but then realised Sherlock probably knows what a closed book looked like. "That's why they like to get me hammered."

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully but said nothing.

"I don't think I want the crisps." John confessed into the silence.

"I imagine not." Sherlock stood and was in front of John looking down at him. "What do you want?" he asked softly, leaning down tantalisingly.

John stared at his lips. Pretty lips. Good kissing lips. Bad thoughts. He looked back up at those brilliantly coloured eyes.

"So it's because I'm interesting?" John asked carefully.

"Yes."

"And if I said thank you but no and left, would that make me more or less interesting?"

Amusement again. "You won't," Sherlock said confidently, a hand walking up John's leg to his very hard crotch.

John stared at the hand, feeling his breath shorten into panting gasps. Slowly he grinned and looked up.

"Thank you for the offer," he said, managing to hardly slur. "But I need to go home."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked utterly fascinated.

"I'm very stubborn." John announced. "And very moralistic." He nodded, pleased with the word. "And I am not shagging you because it will interest you. I will shag you when you want to." He frowned, trying to work out if that had many any sense, "'cause you haven't said that."

Sherlock pulled away, looking unsure for the first time. But, when he turned back, he was utterly unreadable. "Where do you live?"

John picked a wall. "That way."

"You live in the Thames?"

"Possibly not," John struggled to his feet. "Uni digs."

Sherlock stared at him and then let out a frustrated sigh. "One minute," he said and stomped off to the room they'd dumped…Sean? Stuart? Oh it was some poncy name.

Like Sherlock was any better.

"Here," Sherlock returned with a wad of cash.

"I'm not taking your money," John said backing away.

"Good. It isn't mine."

John stared at him then started to giggle. "You stole his money."

"_He_ stole my cocaine."

John looked at Sherlock as the man folded the cash and carefully shoved it into John's jean pocket. John stared at the neck in front of him and breathed in the clean smell. "You know it's bad for you?" he asked the neck.

The hand in his pocket paused. "Yes."

John turned into the neck. "Ok."

For a second he thought he felt a brief press of lips against his hair, but he had probably imagined that. "I'll call you a taxi."

John nodded. "I'm not gonna see you again. Am I?" he asked, feeling a little annoyed with the situation.

Sherlock turned to him, "I wouldn't say that John. You're far too interesting to not bump into again."

John grinned.

It took a few minutes for the taxi to arrive and John could feel his eyes getting heavy.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If I don't remember this it's because I'm really wasted. Not 'cause I didn't want to remember."

"You'll remember," Sherlock said confidently, "You're just tired now."

"Oh. But…I might not."

Strong arms helped him to the door, "You will," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"'Kay."

"Where did you get to last night?" Mike asked looking worried.

John groaned and turned into his pillow, sure that his head was being murdered. "Joe's house or his girlfriend's house. Joe was in there somewhere…" he muttered.

"I went to look for you. Mel said you'd gone off with some random guys."

_Sherlock._

John opened his eyes. "Yeah," he said, a little more awake now.

"You're alright?" Mike sounded concerned. "I mean Jesus, John, that was a really stupid thing to do."

John grinned into his pillow. "Interesting," he corrected. "It was really interesting."

Mike muttered something under his breath that sounded like "You're a fucking dipstick, Watson."

John just kept grinning.


	2. The second time

Chapter Summary:

John is stuck in the pub looking after yet another idiot when Sherlock slides in next to him. With a free drink, so it's not all bad.

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**The Second Time**

**University Year 1: May**

The pub wasn't exactly cheap but it was doing a special offer on a particularly foul type of rum that Connor (whose birthday it was) loved.

John stared down at the shot, the smell making his eyes water.

"Ready? One, two, three," Mike called.

They knocked it back and Christ did it hurt! John managed to swallow it but spluttered, wincing at the foul taste.

"God, that's bad," he muttered, eyeing the glass.

Paul seemed to agree as he suddenly bolted for the loo.

"'nother!" Slurred Connor. "Now," he added, swaying where he stood.

"When are we meeting the girls?" Mike asked looking at his watch, the other hand resting on Connor's back to make sure he didn't sway too far back.

"Who knows? Maggie takes forever to get her slap on," Andy shrugged.

"She's your girlfriend," John muttered.

"Yeah, and I know how much work goes into that face." Andy rolled his eyes. "It'll be another hour at least."

John shook his head and flagged down the barman for a beer, screw the cost.

"How's it going with that girl? Anna?"

It was impossible to help the grin, "Yeah, good."

He was having sex. Regular sex with a girl who had the best smile he'd ever seen.

Life was fantastic, he remembered; the beer was definitely a good shout.

"Who's Anna?" Paul asked, coming back and wiping his mouth suspiciously.

"John's new bird," Andy said. "I reckon he's a bit dippy on her!"

God, please say he wasn't blushing, "She's sweet," he replied, squirming a little.

"Aw," They mocked as the barman put down the beer in front of John.

"Shut up," John paid the man and grinned. "Gits."

Paul bolted again.

It was agreed that the others would move on and John valiantly offered to stay at the pub and wait for Paul to crawl back out of the toilet at some point.

Besides, Anna wasn't out tonight and John wasn't exactly sure how clubbing worked when you had a girlfriend. It was always too noisy to do anything but dance and John was damned sure he wasn't suffering through public dancing if he wasn't trying to get someone's attention.

And what the hell else was there to do?

But sitting in a pub on your own wasn't much fun either. Though he did manage a sort of game of tiddlywinks with peanuts and an ashtray.

When he finished his drink he wandered over to the toilets and Paul's cubicle.

"Paul?"

"Wha'?"

"You alive?"

"Mmm."

"Do you need…help?" _Please say no, please say no._

"No."

_Thank god._ "Ok…well, I'll be out in the bar when you're done. So…don't die."

"Mmm."

John made his way back to the table and pulled out a pen from his jeans pocket, stolen from a trip to Argos earlier in the day. Bored he started to list the bones in the body on a beer mat.

Until a beer was placed in front of him.

John stared at it. "Look I-"

And looked straight up into a pair of familiar, amused pale eyes.

"Hi," John said stupidly.

Sherlock slid in next to him. "Drink the beer, John."

Well, he wasn't gonna argue with that. But half way to his mouth he looked at Sherlock sharply, "There's nothing in this that shouldn't be in this, is there?"

"I wouldn't waste the money," Sherlock muttered, leaning around to see something on the other side of the pub. "Drink it and act like you know me."

"And not like I came to your flat for a packet of crisps?" John asked, feeling a little lost.

A small smile played on Sherlock's lips. "You said you'd forget."

"And you said I wouldn't." John replied taking a sip.

Sherlock glanced at him in that way that meant he was decoding John like a…decoding thing. "You took someone else up on the offer then?"

"Offer?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"Oh," _that!_ John shifted, "Well…I knew her name before she asked."

Sherlock actually laughed. "That seems fair." He shook his head, almost seeming confused by his reaction.

Sighing, and knowing he was facing a boring night once Sherlock was gone, John shifted a bit closer hoping to drag the moment out, "So, why do I have to pretend that I know you?"

"I'm blending in," Sherlock replied, looking into the bar again.

"You're really not," John muttered to his beer. "You suck at blending in."

"Why?" Sherlock sounded offended.

"'Cause you look like that," John said as if the answer should have been obvious.

"You may have a point," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "Come here."

"Why-"

Sherlock attacked him. Well…sort of. One minute they were just sitting there and the next Sherlock had his tongue down John's throat.

And bloody hell was he a good kisser. All nips and tongue and when John gasped it just seemed to be permission to let Sherlock delve further in.

Then they broke apart and John stared at him blankly.

"Don't stare John; you're drawing attention to us."

Utterly bewildered, John took a sip. "I…I think that," he waved his hand between the two of them, "Probably drew more attention to us. And I have a girlfriend," he added, suddenly remembering that important bit of information.

"She's dull. Dump her."

John gaped, "You haven't even met her," he protested.

Sherlock didn't even look at him. "You forgot her status to you for a full three minutes and during a kiss from someone else and even while talking about her. Dump her; you're already bored of her."

That couldn't be right…could it? John stared at the fizzy golden liquid in front of him, tracing the rim of the glass idly.

"You are aware that if one fiddles with a glass like that it is a sign they are sexually frustrated?"

John pulled his hand away. "I am not…" he shook his head exasperated. "What are you doing?" he asked pathetically.

"It's far too complicated to explain."

John thunked his head onto the table and covered his hair with his arms.

"Yes, that isn't at all suspect," Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

Rolling his head to one side, John looked up at the man opposite. "Is it legal?"

"Not one bit."

"Well…thank you for dragging me into it." John reached for his beer again sitting back up.

"I am merely expanding your horizons. You'll find it useful when you go into the army."

John stared at him, "How could you possibly know that? Any of that? All that stuff you mentioned at your place," John shook his head, "What was that?"

"I observed."

"Observed?"

Sherlock sighed, "You don't stand in a military position but after twenty seconds you start to lean into it. That suggests some training and a certain fondness for the training. You seem unsure of it though; as if not sure you are doing it right. So basic training; you left there, but you want to go back. You told me you wanted to be a trainee doctor and you were with Sebastian. Clearly you'd never met him before or you wouldn't have had to ask me if I didn't like that annoying idiot."

"Maybe he's not that-"

"You really haven't met him. Think; no-one else wanted to deal with him! You were dragged in under the guise of being slightly more medically apt than the rest of them. The fact that you didn't know him, yet still helped, suggests a strong moral compass."

That sounded like a nice quality. "And the other thing?" John asked. "You know…the thing that isn't an issue any more?"

Sherlock leaned forward and John held his breath. "There," Sherlock smiled. "You don't stare at me in bewilderment anymore; you don't look quite as lost as you previously did. You were skittish, despite being attracted to me."

An amused grunt erupted from John's lips. "And you know I was attracted to you because?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively sitting back. "Basic biology: your eyes dilated, I took your pulse." Sherlock looked around again, his eyes tracking someone. "Petty tricks that anyone can use."

"That…" John swallowed, "was amazing."

Sherlock snapped his attention back to John. "What?"

"It's brilliant! Really…just brilliant." John sat back and took a sip. "Truly extraordinary."

Sherlock blinked at him, "Really?"

"Yeah!" John leaned forward, "Ok, so how did you know about the gay relative?"

Now Sherlock seemed skittish, "I…uh…your heated reaction to the implication that you were gay indicated that you've dealt with homophobia before, but your lack of disgust indicated you yourself weren't homophobic," Sherlock rattled. "It would suggest that you have therefore seen it through someone else's experience and, judging from your determination to not deviate sexually, I would assume a sibling. Probably older given your age and the fact that you would be the type to take in a younger sibling who was having a hard time and would therefore not be buying beer that was out of your price range."

"It's…brilliant," John floundered to say anything more. "And you can do that with everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock shook the issue away, "You have no objection to it?"

John shook his head, "Though I'd probably be a bit pissed if you did it in public. There are some things I would rather people didn't know."

"But I know."

"Yeah but you're…you!" John grinned. "You should do it for a living."

"Strangely most people object to me telling them every detail about their lives." Sherlock seemed to pull himself back a little from what they were talking about. "Your friend should be out soon," he said with a rather distasteful look at the bathroom door. "And I must go."

"Oh," John nodded, feeling strangely disappointed.

"John," Sherlock leaned over the table and John looked up, startled. "Dump her."

"Why?" John asked, unsure how to handle Sherlock being that close.

"Because you won't cheat," Sherlock replied and then pulled away and disappeared into the crowd.

His mouth was open in shock, he knew that. And he was aware of how utterly unattractive that probably looked.

"John?"

Dragging his eyes from where he had last seen Sherlock, John looked up at a much healthier looking Paul.

"Uh, you look better," John said slowly, feeling as if his mind had to adjust to talking to someone who wasn't Sherlock again.

"Do you mind if we sack the club off?" Paul asked rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'll buy you a pint if you want?"

Another free drink? Why not!

"Do you think I'm bored of Anna?" John asked as Paul sat down.

Paul shrugged; "She's your first proper girlfriend John," he said.

"Yeah…just someone said something that got me thinking…" John shook it away.

"What did some girl hit on you?"

"No, a guy," John replied on automatic, and then froze, unsure what the reaction would be.

But Paul just raised an eyebrow, "Huh…is he…and don't be emphatic, but is he more…fit to you? I mean if it were a straight competition between him and Anna. Who would win?"

John smiled at the table, "Is it gonna sound really cliché that I can tell just from meeting him twice that it would be bloody complicated. And really casual?"

"Do you want that?" Paul asked frankly.

It was a good question. Images of his mother frantically flitting from guy to guy had put John off of being desperate for someone to "complete him". No relationship was better than just any relationship. And Harry, well, she wasn't exactly stable in her choices.

He just wanted…normal. Someone to talk to, have fun with and share a life with.

"No," John said honestly.

"Then there's your answer." Paul slapped him on the back. "Though if Anna is boring you, you should probably let her down soon. Longer it drags on the worse the break ups get."

John sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. "I'll probably never see him again anyway," he muttered.

"Uh…John?"

"What?" John asked looking down again to see Paul pointing at his shirt pocket.

In it was a folded piece of square paper which, when unfolded, showed a phone number scrawled in looped writing.

John stared at it feeling torn.

"Complicated, casual? Likely to break your heart? No good will come of it?" Paul prodded.

"Yeah," John still stared at it. "But I should at least tell him that I'm not-"

Paul took the paper and dumped it in his own beer.

"But-"

"You're too nice," Paul shrugged. "It's why you're here instead of the club. Trust me John, I'm doing you a favour."

John stared at the paper that floated and broke apart in the beer, the number blurring into nothing and wondered.


	3. The problem with Harry

Chapter Summary:

Harry and trouble always turn up together. John shouldn't really be surprised by that anymore!

* * *

**The Problem With Harry**

**University Year 2: October**

Harry was in town.

That in itself had been irritating. Just the sentence "Harry was in town" had caused endless issues. Issues like having a screaming match with Kenny, his new flatmate, who seemed to think that just because his big sister was a lesbian she would bring her "hot girlfriend" and have pillow fights and mud fights and all that crap. And just because Harry was his big sister did not mean that he wouldn't deck the guy for being a dick to her.

But it did mean that Kenny "accidentally" threw out John's tea.

Tosser.

Mike and Paul were pretty good about it. Andy grinned in a way that made John glare and the grin disappeared pretty quickly after that.

Then of course there was the actual talking to Harry. The phone call where she nagged him to make sure the bathroom was clean (which wasn't going to happen) and to make sure the sheets were new (which was so gonna happen because he knew exactly what Kenny had done to his sheets while he'd been at his lecture yesterday morning, the wanker) and to make sure there was edible food in the house (which he argued meant she had to cook it) and that he met her at the right time at the front of the tube station (which might happen, depending on how bored he was).

Normal stuff like that.

He made the usual pleas (no talking about my sister's sex life; she's my sister and it's gross to think of my sister in bed with anyone) and gave the usual warning ( don't challenge her to a drinking match; she's like a fish) and mentioned the rules about swearing (please don't use anything that she says; half of it is foreign and rude because she thinks it's funny) and had the usual calming talk with himself (she'll be gone in three days) and then set out to meet her.

It was the meeting her that always went badly. She'd dyed her hair again and John was sort of vaguely sure he could remember what her natural hair colour had looked like but he made some mutterings about the colour nonetheless and they were all almost complimentary. She was wearing something that made him glare at the heavens because it meant his flatmates were probably going to be staring at her chest all night and that Andy would, at some point, feel the need to compliment her tits. To John.

Fantastic.

Harry's problem always had been, and always would be, that she could never resist getting into trouble. There was always that itching need to start some drama or cause some stir. It was understandable, when he thought about it; because she'd been the centre of so much grief he guessed it had become a defence mechanism to enjoy it, but bloody hell did it make life difficult.

Which meant she hunted down Kenny within about ten minutes of being in the house and then proceeded to be outraged by his "sexual innuendo" and the fact that he was a "massive cock".

John hated his life sometimes.

When all's said and done though, Harry is his sister and there are certain rules that come with that. Things like, it doesn't matter that she's older and he's younger, he isn't gonna stand around and watch someone be horrible to her.

It had been the rule with their step-father and it was the rule now.

Which was sort of how he ended up in his first proper bar fight, despite the fact that his sister was no-where to be seen and, though he wished he didn't know it, probably at Julie's house doing something that John had kinda been hoping he would end up doing.

Cow.

"Your dyke of a sister's taken Julie home."

John slammed his drink down on the bar. "You wanna try that again?" he asked, trying to stay calm.

"Your DYKE of a sister's taken Julie home."

John had a vague feeling he knew this guy from somewhere. "Who the fuck are you?"

The guy sneered, "What the fuck does that matter. She took Julie home."

"I don't bloody care!" John yelled back. "Piss off and find someone else to bug."

In retrospect, turning his back was a big mistake, and one he didn't plan on doing ever again. A hand grabbed him and slammed him into the bar. "Fuck you, Watson."

John stared ahead furiously as the barman glanced over.

"Outside, Joe," The barman said without interest.

The hand on his collar yanked and pulled and somehow John found himself outside the bar with two of Joe's mates crowding round as well.

Fuck!

And they were all big guys. Wide too.

Double fuck!

Bloody Harry!

"Look," John backed up a little bit, "I'm not happy with Harry either. You know what sisters are like?"

"Yeah, Julie's my sister," Joe snapped.

Shit.

John looked around. The only exit was behind friend two, who looked like he might actually win a battle with a car.

With no real option, John let out a long breath, "Right, ok." He swallowed and tried to brace for what was about to come. "Let's get it over with."

Joe sneered as he stepped forward, "You're so fucking dead, Watson."

Yeah, well, Harry was so getting her backside haunted for the rest of her life then.

The first blow slammed him back against the wall and the next was in his stomach before he'd shaken the stars from his eyes.

Fucking Harry.

Joe decided that they had finished at some point. John wasn't exactly sure what the stopping criteria had been but winced as he sat against the wall, spitting blood into the puddle next to him that he was half sitting in.

"Your sister's a cow."

"Also my sister," John winced. "I'm assuming you get what I mean, you know given…" he waved at his bruised face and wondered how the hell he was going to explain this to everyone.

"You ain't gonna apologise for her?"

John shook his head, holding back the gasp of pain. "She really wouldn't be happy with that."

Joe kicked.

When John was able to see again he realised he was face down on the pavement, hidden by the shadows. And it was quietish.

Not good.

Somehow he managed to get to his feet.

Then discovered Joe had done some petty theft as well as ABH.

Bastard.

John leaned against the wall, spitting out blood again and hating the taste of it. He should bloody well go straight home and interrupt whatever the hell it was Harry was doing. That would ruin her night too!

The only problem was that walking home from here was gonna be problematic. It was a long way and walking around after a beating was never exactly a safe idea in London.

Or anywhere probably.

Still, what could he do? Staying in the alley or walking made no real difference.

John stayed close to the walls. Not because he was stupid enough to think that he could hide in the shadows, but they helped him stand up. And walk.

Sort of.

He'd been walking for twenty minutes or so when his vision swayed and he curled into the wall, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass.

"Mate? You ok?"

John nodded against the wall, relatively sure they hadn't seen the fact that his jacket was bloody.

"Leave him. We are discussing Edwards, do not change the subject," A familiar voice snapped.

John grinned against the wall.

"Are you being snippy 'cause I didn't call you?" John asked.

"What? Mate, I don't swing that-"

Whoever Sherlock was talking to was shoved out of the way. "John?" Sherlock asked, sounding much closer now.

With his not so bruised hand, John waved uselessly behind him. "My mate dumped it in a beer. Not my fault."

There was a hiss behind him and then careful hands turned him around.

"Mate," Sherlock's friend shook his head, "You've had a walloping."

John nodded, "Sisters," he said with a tight smile. "Are fucking pains."

Sherlock however had braced John against the wall and was searching him.

"Oh, they took my wallet, if that's what you're looking for. And everything pretty much." John watched Sherlock pat around and gasped whenever he touched a tender spot.

"You need a hospital."

"I am a hospital," John announced. "No…a doctor."

"You're concussed."

John blinked at him. "Am I?"

"How many fingers?"

John giggled.

"John," Sherlock snapped.

"I…" he couldn't focus. "I dunno," he muttered. The wall was comfortable and he could just-

"Do not go to sleep," Sherlock snapped clicking his fingers in John's face. "Do you understand me? Do not go to sleep."

"I don't know you," John said to the friend as they stood there.

The friend shrugged, "Probably better that you don't," he said with a small smile. "Sherlock? I'm off. I'll catch up with you on this later."

Sherlock made an impatient, dismissive motion. "Go."

"I had a dream like this once," John said, looking down at Sherlock's curly head of hair.

"Really?" Sherlock couldn't have sounded more disinterested if he'd tried.

"Good dream."

Sherlock paused and looked up at him, "Ah, that sort of dream?"

"Mm," John reached out and hooked a curl behind Sherlock's ear. "Very good dream."

Sherlock seemed to debate something. "Nothing's broken," he said slowly. "But you are concussed."

"I know," John said, as if that were all obvious.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose irritated, "You have the worst timing," he complained. "Come on. You need to go to the hospital."

The hospital was very white.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when John told him that.

"'m sorry about the number," John mumbled as he tried not to fall asleep.

Sherlock couldn't seem to sit still and said nothing.

"I would have phoned you," John continued on.

Sherlock didn't seem to want to look at him, "To say no," he replied in a clipped voice.

"Yeah, but I wanted to tell you that." John winced as his head started to pound and leaned forward, immediately regretting it when the world lurched.

Sherlock seemed to be tapping out some fast, repetitive rhythm on his own leg. "Why?"

"Because it was rude-"

"No," Sherlock made a quick movement again. "Why would you have said no?"

John looked at him, properly for the first time that night. "Same reason that you can't sit still," he said pointedly.

"You understand that even while concussed you've realised something that none of these idiots have?"

John couldn't find a good place to rest his head at all, "I know you," he said quietly. "You're not usually this jerky. You're smooth."

Someone walked past and Sherlock waited for them to get out of ear shot. "Is the cocaine your only complaint?" he asked in a tone that John just about heard.

"Normal annoys you," John replied.

"Normal will annoy you," Sherlock said woodenly. "I can tell."

"Never had it," John mumbled. "Want to try it." He cracked open an eye. "I'll give you data on it if you like?" he offered.

Something in Sherlock's gaze softened and he shook his head.

"You can go," John offered. "If you need to," he added pointedly.

Sherlock said nothing, and for a moment John thought he was about to stand. Then, strangely, Sherlock shifted, his arm wrapping around John's shoulders and pulling him in until John could rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

It was a blessed relief and John instantly relaxed. "You smell nice," he whispered.

"You smell like lager and dried blood," Sherlock replied without venom. Then a smile pressed against his ear, "You smell interesting."

John tutted in disapproval. "I have to stay awake," he reminded Sherlock.

"I know."

When the doctor declared that all was fine, Sherlock must have taken John back to his because the next thing he knew it was light and he was in an unfamiliar bed.

Hesitantly, John wandered out into the sitting room where some skinny idiot was sitting with a cheese sandwich and This Morning blaring out from the TV.

"Oh fuck!" The boy yelped, "What the hell did he do to you?"

John looked down. "Oh, no, he took me to the hospital."

The boy's jaw dropped showing a mouthful of chewed up bread and cheese. "Sherlock? Took you to a hospital? Was he high?"

Yes.

"Uh…is he here?" John asked, not wanting to get Sherlock into trouble.

"Who the hell knows?" the boy said, which could probably be translated as "I don't care."

John looked around, lost. "I…" Screw it. "Can I have a shower?"

"Yeah… you got some blood," the boy said looking away. "Use his towels though. And his stuff."

Right.

When John emerged from the prison cell masquerading as a shower and raced back into Sherlock's room, Sherlock was sat on the bed looking thoughtful.

"Hi," John said uselessly.

Sherlock didn't respond.

Crap! Every time he and Sherlock had talked (three times!) John had been drunk or concussed or drunk. He was sober, very sober now and suddenly very unsure of himself.

"You didn't have to bring me back here," John said softly.

"I know."

Right. Okay. What the hell was he meant to say now?

It took a moment to realise that Sherlock was looking at his chest. When John looked down he looked away again, the vivid bruising making him uncomfortable.

It wasn't there if he didn't look.

"Three of them," Sherlock said tightly. "All taller than you, bigger than you."

John shrugged, "I can pick 'em," he tried to joke.

"You didn't," Sherlock kept staring at his bruises. "You made a comment last night about your sister."

John sighed. "Can I have my shirt?"

"Is she aware of what she puts you through?"

"Please," John said quietly, "I really don't want to talk about this."

Sherlock's pale gaze snapped up to John's. Slowly he eased himself off the bed and stood so close to John they almost touched.

"I could find them," Sherlock said, his voice stirring the hair at John's ear. "They'd never do it again."

John shook his head. "It's done now."

Sherlock took a step forward and, panicked, John took one back. There was a look in Sherlock's eyes that made John swallow nervously until his back hit the door. Shocked he looked back and realised he had no-where left to retreat to.

"Why would you have said no?" Sherlock asked. "The real reason?"

This wasn't happening! Just because Sherlock was older and better at this sort of thing did not mean that John was going to be a complete girl about it.

He leaned forward suddenly and kissed Sherlock.

It was just as bloody good as he remembered it being. It was utterly intoxicating and John was sure he could just kiss Sherlock for hours. But that wasn't the point of this he told himself sternly.

Pulling away he tugged as Sherlock's bottom lip, nipping at it with a grin. Sherlock's eyes looked dazed for once as John pulled back.

Then, deliberately, John licked his lips, smiled and ducked past Sherlock, trying to hide the wince as he went and retrieved his shirt.

When it was done up, spattered blood and all, John turned back to Sherlock who hadn't moved.

"Was it that good?" he asked, teasing.

Sherlock whirled suddenly and grabbed at John's arm, avoiding the bruising. "You are going to tell me one day," he hissed.

"Probably," John agreed. "But if you'll excuse me I need to get home and yell at my sister."

It was somewhat gratifying to see the way that Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Can I watch?" he asked.

"Nah." John winked. "You'd be horribly disappointed by it; I can't tell Harry off for toffee. I'll probably be apologising to her before it's done."

"I'll do it," Sherlock offered darkly. "And I guarantee you I will not apologise."

"No," John pulled on his jacket, "I can't imagine you apologising," he sighed as he remembered Joe had taken his keys.

Sherlock produced a fifty from somewhere. "Catch a taxi," he instructed offering it to John.

John stared at the money. "I'm not…I really don't want to take your money."

"Either you take it or I will go with you."

Defeated, John took the note. "I'll pay you back."

"Tell me why you don't want to spend the night."

John shook his head, "I'll pop the money through-"

"Don't. I'm moving."

"Annoying flatmate?" John asked.

"Yes I believe I am."

Laughing and then wincing at the pain, John hesitated. "Right well…I'll find you then I guess."

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock smiled wolfishly. "I'll find you."


	4. Followed home

Chapter Summary: "Did he just follow you home one day?"

* * *

Followed Home

Lectures could be boring…well, at the moment they were boring. The current module was being run by a guy who was so into it all, that he occasionally forgot to explain anything. But, unfairly, they took a register sheet at every lecture so John could hardly get away with skipping like some people did.

The bruises from the week before had just started to fade away. Harry had been so stunned that for the first time she actually apologised and promised to do better.

He figured it would last a month, but hell, he'd take it!

Tapping his pen on his pad of paper, John sighed; waiting for the lecture to start and ignoring the sounds of jostling behind him.

Then started at a long leg curled over the wooden edge behind John and into John's row.

Sherlock sat down next to him as if there was nothing at all unusual about the situation.

Was he dreaming or still drunk? John gaped at the lecture screen in front of him and then poked the back of his right hand hard.

No, that hurt so he had to be awake…

"Good morning," John said, lost for anything else to say.

"Are they your previous notes?"

"Yes-" John shook his head as the pad of paper was tugged out of his hands and Sherlock settled down to read them. "You're not in this course," he said carefully.

"No," Sherlock didn't seem to see any relevance in that statement. "He's very advanced."

"What? The lecturer?" John scratched under his eye, "Yeah, I don't follow half of it, so who knows."

"It's a trauma lecture,"

John exhaled slowly, "Yeah, I'm not that thick," he complained. "Have you just followed me here?"

"It's interesting," Sherlock gave him back his notes and settled back the way one would to watch a film.

For a moment John had the oddest feeling he was on the strangest date ever.

"Will you be able to follow this?" John asked after a moment or two.

Sherlock glared at him.

"Sorry," John held up a hand placating the idiot genius sitting next to him, "Sorry, so should I be concerned that you think a lecture on trauma is a fun way to spend your time?"

"It's data."

Ah, data again. John flicked the pages of his pad back to where he'd had it open before Sherlock had started rifling through. "Why do you need data on injuries?"

"It helps me."

This was going no-where! John slid down the chair a little, knowing from experience he was highly unlikely to find a comfortable position. "Wake me up when he's done," he muttered.

But Sherlock wrenched him back up, "It will be useful to you too. Do you not want to go into the army? Do you think it will be colds you will end up treating?"

"I don't understand him," John winced as he heard himself whine, "It's not worth it! I just go-"

"To the library and stay up later than you should" Sherlock sounded disapproving. "Then why come here?"

"Register."

Sherlock was silent and John glanced over at him. "I could forge your signature," Sherlock offered quietly. "I wish to attend these anyway."

It was tempting. "Nah, my tutor will probably cotton on. It's fine."

Then they settled back as the lecture began and Sherlock seemed so fascinated that John almost managed to follow the first twenty minutes.

And so it begun.

Sherlock didn't come to every lecture but he suddenly seemed to be on campus. And, after "borrowing" John's library card for the weekend, seemed to have acquired his own, which meant access to the collections.

And endless bitching about the layout of the library, the staff and the way that John took notes from text books.

"What do you actually do?" John asked one evening as his eyes started to see black dots rather than words.

"Whatever I want to do," Sherlock relied easily.

Right.

The worst part was that there seemed no predictable schedule to Sherlock's sudden appearances. He would just turn up and John would stare, nod and sigh, then get on with whatever he was doing.

And Sherlock would occasionally say something weird as to why he was researching a certain area and John would usually try not to tear his hair out with frustration.

"Hair products?" he replied blankly.

"Yes," Sherlock seemed almost bored with the conversation as they walked, John eating his dinner which consisted of a pasty from Greggs.

"Why?"

That seemed to be his catchphrase at the moment. God only knew what he bothered asking; it wasn't as if he ever got a proper reply.

"Because it tells me about people."

Like that.

"Ah, I get it," John nodded seriously and then did some quick manoeuvring to ensure the filling of his pasty didn't tumble to the floor.

"You do?" Sherlock sounded surprised.

"Yeah, you want to be a hairdresser."

Sherlock almost stopped in confusion, "No I don't."

"I can tell these things," It was hard to keep his mouth straight, "I see it; I mean you'd be fantastic chatting to little old ladies about their cats and listening to all those complaints. You're an amazing people person."

"I..." Sherlock seemed utterly thrown. "What?"

"And honestly you would look amazing wielding a pair of scissors and a hairbrush and those belt things that look like some utility belt."

"You're teasing," Sherlock murmured, sounding still a little taken aback.

"Of course I'm bloody teasing" John grinned and turned to face Sherlock, walking backwards as he did so. "You as a hairdresser? Discussing what shade of yellow looks best?"

"Blond," Sherlock corrected, his lips twitching.

"Oh," John dumped the foul pasty in the bin, slightly impressed that he was managing this whole walking backwards business. "I take it all back! You are gonna be the King of hairdressers!" he said with a dramatic wave of his hand.

Sherlock's lips trembled with laughter as his eyes narrowed, scanning John in that way that meant he was trying to find something to inform him of John's behaviour.

"Lamp."

"What-" John narrowly missed the lamp, thanks to some rather uncoordinated darting skills. "Thanks."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but every so often as they walked John could see just a hint of a surprised smile on his face.

"You're not eating?"

"It slows you down," Sherlock replied.

"Didn't slow me down," John boasted. "See, I ate and kept up with you."

"A pasty, really John you should have a little more self-respect!"

"Mm, Cornish pasties," John made a sound that his head winced at sounding perhaps a little too orgasmic-like. "Sausage rolls and cheese slices,"

"You are revolting."

"Mini pizzas and the batter you get off fish and chips."

"John, stop it."

"And…kebabs-"

"You are supposed to be training to be a doctor," Sherlock snapped, "You will end up with scurvy!"

"And apple donuts," John added meekly.

Now he could spot it easier; see when Sherlock wanted to laugh but also didn't want people to know that. "Idiot," he said fondly.

"You drink though, right?"

Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes, "You drink more than enough for the pair of us," he replied prissily.

"I meant tea," John shook his head as he opened the gate that would probably collapse due to wood rot within the next three minutes.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, looking around suddenly.

"House," John replied digging out his keys and flicking through the four keys he had, trying to remember which was the house key.

Again.

When he finally got the door open (there was a technique that involved kicking it as many times as was needed and then kicking it again just to prove a point) he turned to Sherlock. "So? Do you want tea?"

As if stepping into a leper colony, Sherlock edged forward, eyes darting everywhere as if trying to take everything in.

Which, knowing him, was probably exactly what was happening.

And at some point he just wandered off into the other rooms.

"That's…I live with…don't get caught by my flatmates," John ended up calling as he stood in the living room on his own.

There was a noise that John took to mean Sherlock had acknowledged what he had said.

Putting the kettle on, John stared at the dirty dishes and then rooted through to find the least dirty cups to run under the tap.

What were the rules for this? What were you meant to do when someone who you had snogged twice, been propositioned by once and had been chatting to in a weird "oh you're here we may as well talk" way for the past three weeks, was in your house?

And Sherlock hadn't tried to kiss him again…or brought up sex again…John tilted his head at the kettle as he half-heartedly dried up the almost clean cups.

God, was he hitting on Sherlock? Could you do that without knowing about it?

The kettle clicked off and John started to pour the water, pulling a face as he spotted what looked like the remains of toast on a plate.

Though he could hardly talk given the old sandwich on his desk.

In his bedroom.

Which Sherlock was probably-

Yelping in horror, John put the kettle down and flew into the living room and into his room.

Sherlock was standing by the tiny window and John slowly reached for the plate and started to kick the dirt washing sort of under the bed-

"If you ever wish to attract a bed mate you will need to tidy."

John wanted to sink through the floor, "Yeah…um…you couldn't like close your eyes for half an hour or so…could you?"

"You dislike one of your flatmates," Sherlock still stared out the window, though who the hell knew what he was seeing given that the view was of the tiny overgrown garden and back gate.

"Kenny? Yeah…" John shrugged, "Well, beggars can't be choosers and all that!"

Silence fell and, for the first time, it was awkward.

"I have tea… almost," John shifted. "And if you could possibly forget what a complete mess my room is I would be forever grateful," he added, picking the plate up and hiding it behind his back.

Slowly Sherlock turned, "You don't care that I just wandered into your room?"

That was a point! "Well I didn't say you couldn't," John said after a moment.

And then that look happened again!

John had a feeling he was going to get very well acquainted with that look!

John had expected a bit more of a reaction from his mates. He wasn't sure why exactly; they all brought friends back with them from time to time.

But it was Sherlock, somehow it seemed as if more of a fuss should be made about that.

"Your friend," Paul said one evening. "It's him isn't it? The 'interesting one'?"

John glared at the television. "Leave it alone," he warned, "It's not like that."

"He's a bit odd," Paul continued on regardless.

"Paul…" John growled, "Leave it."

"So what's he doing?" Mike asked as Sherlock made his way around the pub.

"Calculating," John shrugged. "I have no idea," he added when Mike opened his mouth again. "I didn't want to risk the headache by asking."

Mike seemed fascinated by Sherlock and just went back to watching him with a confused eye.

Paul grinned at John. "Yeah…calculating," he winked at John.

Startled John turned to watch Sherlock closely, almost certain by the time he turned back that Sherlock was indeed looking at the table edges and not at the numerous young people sitting at said tables.

"God, I swear there has got to be a way," Andy declared staring longingly at Phoebe Darvil. "Nothing is working; bloody Tuner is gonna end up with her!"

It was the latest moan in a twenty minute period and John yawned pointedly, "Oh my god, if you keep going on about it I am going to hit you!"

"You don't understand!" Andy protested, "Please-"

"Buy her a Whiskey and dry ginger," Sherlock muttered. He had turned up about an hour ago and then again three minutes ago.

John didn't bother trying to keep track of his comings and goings anymore.

"Why?"

"Buy her the drink and then ask about the racing. Confess you know nothing about it but saw her watching. Say you're trying to learn, that you want to impress a girl."

Andy snorted, "Oh yeah, that's a turn on!"

"She'll know you mean her, you idiot," Sherlock turned his back to Andy, "Did you print off the pictures?" he asked John.

"Yes," John said, tearing his eyes away from Andy's thoughtful look.

"Where are they?"

"I don't carry pictures of...of that stuff around with me!"

"That stuff?" Andy asked eagerly.

"Wounds, not porn," John replied quickly without looking at him. "It's at home," he added to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and walked out the pub.

"Where's he going?"

"Oh to break into our house," John said picking up his coat. "I should probably go and make sure he doesn't mess up my room."

Andy snorted.

And then that was that! Somehow Sherlock was in John's life. Mike was awed, Paul wary and Andy wouldn't bloody stop asking for pick-up tips (which, worryingly, Sherlock seemed to have an endless supply of). John had never had a friend like Sherlock before.

Or whatever the hell he was.


	5. The nature of your relationship?

Chapter Summary: John has an interesting conversation on his way home.

* * *

**The Nature of your Relationship**

**University Year 2: January**

"John?"

John tried to hide in his pillow.

"JOHN!"

"Fuck off," he muttered, "'m 'sleep."

"The lunatic's asking for you."

John opened his eyes to glare at Kenny. "Get out of my room," he hissed.

"Get the lunatic to shut up then."

"What?" he asked, yanking open the front door and finally ending the ceaseless knocking.

Sherlock pushed past him.

"Hello John, apologies for knocking so late," John muttered to the front door before slamming it shut and padding after Sherlock.

"You don't have tea." Sherlock muttered looking around the living room and walking into the kitchen.

John just sat in a chair. "No," he said yawning, "No, no, no."

"What happened to your tea?" called Sherlock.

"Kenny." John closed his eyes. "To be fair, I did tip all of his breakfast cereal out of the window two days ago." When there was just an endless silence John forced himself to open his eyes. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you here?"

Sherlock's head poked around the doorframe. "Annoying flatmate."

_Oh god no._

John froze in panic on his chair, "Which means?" he asked, aware of how terrified he sounded.

Sherlock glared at him, "Two nights John. At the most." Then promptly vanished again.

Nervous, John shifted. They'd managed to maintain a somewhat strange friendship despite the fact that the first few times they'd met Sherlock had tried to seduce him. If he was honest, John still had no idea how he felt about the whole dating Sherlock issue.

No, he shook his head, it wouldn't be dating Sherlock. It would be one night of Sherlock who would then promptly get bored of John.

One fucking amazing night-

"I need caffeine," Sherlock snapped in the kitchen.

Andy's door yanked open. "What the hell is going on?" Elle, Andy's most recent fuck buddy, demanded.

John leaned his head back to look at her, "Please tell me you have tea or coffee on you somewhere. Or Red Bull failing that?"

Elle looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"I am begging you," John added, "For my sanity. Just ask Andy. Please."

"Who the hell is in the kitchen?" Elle asked, sounding less sure.

"Crap," Andy's sleepy voice muttered from inside the darkness of the room. "Top shelf in my cupboards is some pro plus. Just make him stop banging around the kitchen."

John turned back to the kitchen feeling very put upon, "Did you hear-"

"I don't want pro-plus."

John almost wanted to cry as Elle looked as if she was gearing herself up for a fight.

"I'll go to the shops," he lurched out of the chair. "Tell me what you want and I'll go to the 24 hour garage." He called to the kitchen.

"I found vanilla coffee."

John looked thoughtfully at Kenny's door. "Yeah, use that."

Bastard deserved it for tossing his tea.

Sherlock was surprisingly good for his word and moved again the following day. That night however had set up a precedent that if Sherlock had a row with the poor mug that had taken him in, he would stomp over to John's and annoy the household until one of them, usually Mike for some reason, went round to the unfortunate flatmate and smoothed things over.

"Who would you rather have in the flat: Kenny or Sherlock?" Andy asked one afternoon after row number seven had been settled with Sherlock's flatmate.

"Tough choice," John muttered feeling particularly uncharitable that day, "Do I want my tea thrown out or drunk?"

Andy sniggered.

John grinned but inwardly frowned.

Sherlock still hadn't brought up any sexual scenario for ages and John had no idea what to make about that.

The library sucked!

John kicked at a bottle as he walked home, hands jammed into his jacket pockets. They'd kicked him out just as he'd gotten into the flow of the note taking.

As if keeping the library open an extra hour would have been an issue.

Though bloody hell, thinking about it, traffic was bad for ten past midnight. The car next to him was crawling along…

John stopped in horror. The car was crawling along; though John could see no real reason for it.

_I'm gonna be abducted!_

This was only meant to happen to girls right? Maybe the car sensed that once…twice, he'd kissed a guy and now thought that-

The door opened.

"Get in Mr Watson."

How the hell did they know his name?

Peering cautiously down, John squinted into the back seat where a man sat in a suit.

"Uh…I'm good," John smiled fearfully, "But thank you-"

"In, John."

John stood back up and looked around hopefully. There was no-one else around at all and the front window wound down to show a rather solid looking man in another posh suit.

Slowly John's hand edged towards his pocket for his phone.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I have no wish to deal with the consequences." The man in the back said.

John took a breath and bend down again, "Look, I don't know how you know me but I'm not into…that…apart from once. Twice. But the point is I really don't want to. Get in. With you."

The man's expression didn't change once and the driver stepped out of the car.

He was massive.

Great.

The car reeked of wealth and John tried to take up as small a space as possible as he avoided looking at the man.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

John sighed, "Look I told you! It was twice! Okay? That doesn't mean I want to get hit on by some man with a fancy car."

The man rolled his eyes, "The idiocy of youth," he muttered shaking his head, "I am not…'hitting on you' Mr Watson. I am asking you about Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh." Mortified John sunk into the seat, wanting to disappear. "Uh...friends. Just friends."

"Friends?" The man said it as if the word was dirty.

"Mostly," John added with a nod. "Mostly friends."

"Except for once or twice." The words could have been lashed out with a whip.

"Yeah," John said eyeing the door handle and wondering if it would be completely stupid to try throwing himself out of a moving vehicle.

The man didn't seem happy.

"Why are you asking?" John asked suddenly.

"I worry about him. Constantly."

John risked glancing over, unable to work out whether the man was being sarcastic or not. "So you kidnap people?"

Suddenly John found himself pinned by a searching gaze and then a flicker of realisation seemed to dawn. "Oh, I am merely giving you a lift home. It's late and there are some unsavoury people out."

This was so not happening!

"So you threatened me to get in the car so you could give me a lift home?" John asked slowly, trying to wrap his head around the idea.

"Don't say threatened; that will cause all manner of bother."

"You told me not to use my phone!" John yelped.

"I wished to avoid the headache I will no doubt get for 'interfering'. I am sure you have noticed how vocal my brother can be."

John started to nod, "Yeah-"

Oh no.

Oh Christ no.

"You…you're Sherlock's brother?"

"Yes," The man gave a long suffering sigh.

"So…I just told Sherlock's brother that once or twice-"

"We don't need to bring that up again," The brother said hurriedly.

Thank you!

"So…" John shifted a bit, trying to relax. "Do you…do this often? Kidnap his friends?"

"We are at your house," the brother announced not looking at him.

Oh…okay…

"Mr Watson," the brother said as John reached for the door.

John flexed his hand around the door handle, the strangest feeling that what was about to come was probably the entire point of this whole kidnap,"Yes?"

"If I discover you encouraging or using my brother for his recreational habits, I will ensure you are removed from your course so quickly it will make the other kind of "rush" pale in comparison. Are we clear?"

Slowly John nodded and then nodded frantically when Sherlock's brother raised an eyebrow (the resemblance seeming very clear all off a sudden).

"I…No, actually. Can I just check?" John heard himself say, even as most of his brain cringed in horror. "When you say recreational…you don't mean…um…"

The sigh was immense, "Get out; you know what I was referring to."

"Your brother kidnapped me!" John announced to Sherlock furiously when he stumbled across him in the uni coffee shop the following day.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Is Mycroft still doing that?" he asked blandly, stirring in his sugar.

Mycroft and Sherlock? John made a mental note to never, ever meet their parents…and then shuddered at the idea of being interrogated by concerned parents too.

Or just babbling to concerned parents…one day he would learn to control his tongue!

"You didn't think to warn me that he does that?" he asked, trying to shake away distracting thoughts.

"No." Sherlock pushed John's coffee at him. "He'd only have done something different to spite me."

John sat, drained. "Did you at least pay for these?" he asked half-heartedly.

"Don't be an idiot."


	6. Why not?

Chapter Summary: John debates the reasons why he shouldn't have a relationship with Sherlock Holmes

* * *

**Why Not?**

There are some things that John Watson had observed about Sherlock Holmes' sex life (and by observed he means the normal kind of observed not the Holmes' insane version).

And the more he observed the worse his vague hope of one day being able to say 'yes' to Sherlock got.

**1. Sherlock Holmes was still having sex.**

They were waiting around the flat during Sherlock's…fourth or fifth row with a flatmate and while he was "inbetween" places. Secretly John was starting to enjoy those moments now when Sherlock would make a vague effort to avoid being homeless and would tell John all kinds of tips about his flatmates, friends, rivals on his course and lecturers.

And Sherlock seemed to enjoy it. He even seemed to find sitting in the living room with John's friends bearable, though he would pop in an out as it suited him and depending on his level of interest in the conversation.

John felt a strange tremor of nerves when Sherlock sat on the arm of his chair for the discussion "What's the weirdest thing you've done in bed?"

"John?"

Uh…

"Treated my partners with respect and thoughtfulness," John joked.

Andy stared at him blankly, "Yeah…you might actually win this!"

There was a chuckle and John sat back, utterly off the hook.

Oh crap! Sherlock's was probably gonna be insane. Something along the lines of "had an orgy with lots of coke and used half the collection at Anne Summers on a goat."

Or something like that.

"Snowballing," Rick announced with a look that said he wasn't quite as proud of that as his voice led them to believe.

Sherlock sharpened next to John. It was the only way that he could describe it.

"What, like the cake/biscuit things?"

Roughly half sniggered and the other half looked relieved that John had asked. But then John's reputation as sweet and a babbler did occasionally work in his favour for moments like these.

"Snowballing," Andy said and gave Rick a look that seemed half impressed and half disgusted, "is when you come in a girl's mouth and then she kisses you and you swallow."

Why?

"Oh," John said nodding slowly, "And Rick thought that was…hot?"

"Fuck off!" Rick threw a cushion at him, "At least it wasn't felching. Or spidermanning."

John needed a dictionary. Or Wikipedia because maybe the Oxford dictionary wouldn't include weird sex acts that Rick liked.

They must have seen his blank look. "Felching is where you suck the come back out afterwards and spidermaning is when you get the spunk on your hand and then just flick. Like spider man does."

John stared.

"Watson what the hell do you do with your girls?"

Girls? All two of them?

"I…normal things? I don't insist we play with spunk like we're having a water fight!" John shook his head, "I dunno…do they like it?"

Rick shrugged, "Dunno."

"You don't know?" Sherlock replied blankly.

Ah, yeah. That was like heresy in Sherlock's books. You should always collect all the data. It was why John just answered his questions now – it saved so much time.

"Do you?" Rick challenged.

John glanced up at Sherlock worriedly.

"This has been very informative." Sherlock stood shaking himself, "Go back to your discussion,"

"Sorry about the other night-"

"Don't be, the data was extraordinary."

John stared horrified, "What? Wait, you didn't go out and-"

Sherlock threw him a look, "No, well one but no. The attitude John, their attitude, it tells you so much about the way these boys conduct themselves, so much data…"

One? What the hell did he mean one?

Catching his look Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, "You need to have practical knowledge and their information last night was incomplete at best. For future reference felching isn't as bad as your face seems to think it would be."

Who the hell had he practiced on?

**2. Sherlock Holmes liked data.**

"I just don't get it!" John said as they sat in his room. "I mean you say the body is transport and yet you have a lot of sex."

He was drunk. And the plan was to say that and then have Sherlock tell him actually he wasn't having that much sex and that secretly he was trying to get John jealous.

Then they would snog and John would pass out and everything would be brilliant.

"Sex is one of the single greatest motivators of human action. I need to understand it in order to understand people. I predict that by my late twenties I'll have a comprehensive amount of data and that such proclivities won't be needed anymore."

There was one thing John could understand from that.

"So you are having a lot of sex?"

**3. Sherlock Holmes was a bastard.**

When John walked in to the pub, Sherlock was standing at the bar with a girl, looking very bored while she gestured frantically at him.

Slowly John skulked up, really not wanting to get involved in whatever it was Sherlock was pissing her off about.

"Ah, John, good. We can go."

And with that Sherlock spun off to the door.

The girl was crying.

"Uh…" John looked after his friend and then damned the fact that tears always made him want to kneel on the floor and beg for forgiveness. "You okay?"

The girl shook her head miserably, "He said I was bad in bed," she sniffed and then her eyes widened in horror, "Don't tell anyone."

"JOHN!" Sherlock called from the door.

Helplessly glancing between the two, John leaned forward to her, "He's a tosser about things like this. You're better off out of it."

Hazel eyes narrowed on him suddenly, "I didn't want a fucking relationship with him," she snarled, "I just…I am fantastic in bed. It was the other one that was shit."

"Sherlock?"

"No, the other one."

Oh.

Oh no.

"Okay." John nodded, feeling as if he's just been dumped in the twilight zone and turning to Sherlock.

Once outside John paused.

"You told her she was bad in bed?"

"She is. The longer she deludes herself the worse she'll get." Sherlock paused, "Though I suppose there isn't much scope left for her skills to deteriorate further."

"Wait? So that's what you do? If they're bad in bed you just tell them and kick them out?"

Oh god, he was never ever sleeping with this man!

**4. Sherlock Holmes seemed to like kinky things.**

Although in fairness that might have been the data thing again.

"Under the bed," Sherlock called from his latest and soon to be previous living room. "It's all in boxes."

Yeah, because what was the point of really unpacking when you moved every ten to sixteen weeks.

It was becoming a running theme at home. They'd be sitting watching television when someone would pipe up, "How long's it been?"

"Ten weeks."

"So we're due a stay from his lordship any day now!"

And sure enough Sherlock would flounce in soon after, announce that everyone in the word was an idiot and hold himself up on the sofa he had, at some point, decided was his.

John was a fucking demon at packing now.

Sherlock's bedroom was always fastidiously clean, despite the mess he seemed to wreck all over his flats. John had never seen any hint of anything unsavoury either; for instance when they had moved Graham out last month – John's skill set had been in particular demand- there had been old used condoms under the bed and dried up baby wipes and tissues galore.

Moving Sherlock was far less hazardous to health, despite the fact that recently he had taken up experimenting in the kitchen.

God knew how long that latest hobby would last. Hopefully no longer than next week; John was having the strangest feeling that soon Sherlock would be demanding participation in both the experiments themselves and then moving them.

The boxes under the bed were easy enough to haul onto the bed. It was the last one that, straining, ended up collapsing in that comedy sketch show way and everything just tumbled out onto John's feet.

Fucking hell!

John stared at the things on the floor and slowly, specifically at the dildo and anal beads that were currently resting happily on his scuffed up trainers.

He was not touching them.

"Sherlock!"

A mop of dark hair peeked around the door, "Yes?"

John pointed at what was at his feet. "They're on my shoes," he said, trying to stay calm.

Sherlock snorted with laughter.

**5. Sherlock Holmes liked Victor.**

Sherlock introduced John and Victor in April when John was frantically trying to study for his exams and Sherlock was either manically helpful by asking John a lot of questions, or terribly unhelpful by then trying to teach John what those medical illnesses implied about the way the person lived their life.

"But you're only half way there," Sherlock would complain. "You're missing things."

"I tell you what, I'll get us half way there and you finish us off," John had snapped.

Andy had snorted, "Could you two sound any more like a gay couple?"

Anyway, that hadn't been the point. The point was that Sherlock had gone off in a sulk and not bothered to contact John for two weeks (which was a blessing in all honesty) before he reappeared with Victor attached to him.

Literally attached. Like at the mouth and hands.

Despite hearing about Sherlock's sex life and seeing various signs (the massive love bite that Sherlock had spent days complaining about sprung to mind) John had never actually seen Sherlock with his hands anywhere near someone that wasn't John.

It was by accident he supposed. Sooner or later he was bound to run into Sherlock on a "not John" night and Sherlock probably still thought John was studying (he was having a break for a night) and was perhaps a little less cautious than he had previously been.

Which suddenly begged the question why Sherlock had been so careful to keep John from seeing that sort of thing.

"You looking for a threesome or something?" Victor asked turning his head to John and John stood frozen while Sherlock braced his hands against the wall and went to town on Victor's neck.

No?

No.

And no.

He was not being humiliated by this.

John dug into his pockets and pulled out the cigarettes that Sherlock had left at his. "When you have finished cleaning his neck, would you mind taking your death sticks back? Andy wants to quit and keeps annoying me for them."

Inwardly he was torn between sobbing at the sight before him and gaping at how calm and collected he sounded.

He wanted to be that person one day; the person who barely reacted and just kept coolly quipping at stressful moments, though not in a cheesy way.

It was the best and worst moment of his life.

Sherlock froze.

Like, actually froze.

"You know this little shit?" Victor asked pulling back to look at Sherlock.

"John Watson, sofa supplier since February," John snapped. "Sherlock, seriously, I haven't got all night."

God he was on a roll!

Slowly Sherlock pulled away from Victor and looked at John.

And he was high.

Great.

Then Sherlock was striding forward and grabbing John's arm, propelling them around the corner and away from the thumping club.

"Don't be too long or I'll share my score with someone else again!" Victor called with a sneer.

Yeah, well, wait till you meet Mycroft, John thought with a sneer. He's gonna glare!

But it wasn't those things that made John worry. They were all good solid reasons to not get involved with Sherlock Holmes.

It was what came after them all that made John panic.

**1. Sherlock Holmes was attracted to him.**

Catching his look Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, "You need to have practical knowledge and their information last night was incomplete at best. For future reference felching isn't as bad as your face seems to think it would be."

Who the hell had he practiced on?

Shaking the thought away John unwrapped the Danish pastry that had been his only option at the counter, pulling the pastry out of its tight spiral. "Am I just really that boring that I can't see the appeal?" he asked, avoiding looking at Sherlock.

"There's an obvious appeal when receiving."

How the hell would Sherlock receive-

Oh!

"Though giving is also an experience, it would I believe depend upon the partner."

Wait…sucking fluid out of someone's…really? People did that?

"That is the original intent of felching," Sherlock replied calmly taking a sip of coffee. "To be between two men."

John took a bite of his pastry, "Okay…maybe I can see the appeal of that, but the rest of what they were saying…it just seems like doing it for the sake of doing it."

"You can see the appeal?" Sherlock set his cup down.

"Maybe," John added cautiously, suddenly fearful of being mocked.

Sherlock studied him for a long moment and then nodded slowly. "Good."

John winced at the icing on his finger and licked at it. The napkins were far too far away to bother walking over to. "Good?" he queried. Why was that good?

"It's useful," Sherlock seemed stuck on his fingers, "to know these things."

That made hardly any sense but John nodded, "Okay. I just…how does it come up? I mean seriously, if I turned to you in the middle of sex and said can I suck you off and then kiss the come back into your mouth what would you say?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped a bit.

Oh Christ!

"That's…I mean…" John felt his cheeks burning, "No, don't answer that." He cringed.

They sat in silence.

"I have a lecture," Sherlock announced, "Criminology."

"Sure." By now John was used to Sherlock's eclectic unofficial degree.

Sherlock stood and then suddenly leaned down to John's ear.

"Don't lick your fingers like that John. It's obscenely difficult to concentrate when you do."

Which would have been bearable except for the kiss.

The slight kiss pressed into the hair just above the ear, like a fond nuzzling and then he was gone.

**2. Sherlock Holmes used the data very well.**

There was one thing John could understand from that.

"So you are having a lot of sex?"

"Define a lot?" Sherlock replied. "And define sex."

"I-"

"I can," Sherlock sat back, "I know what activities usually fall into the category of sex, of healthy sex, of deviant, of morally ambiguous. I know what it means when people try certain activities; their attitudes tell me more than their most secure documents ever could."

"What about me?"

Sherlock looked a little hesitant. "Are you sure?"

John nodded. "Might help," he muttered.

Sherlock seemed thoughtful, more thoughtful than John had ever seen him.

"You care about people and want to help them. You'll suffer to ensure others aren't hurt and are a natural worrier. But you are starting to lose that. Nonetheless you would always protect first, avenge second and you will probably become a lot more competent at the second as you grow older. You are respectful but more than that you believe things need to have a purpose which is how you suffer my rudeness because you often know there is a goal at the end of it."

"I asked you about sex," John muttered after a moment, feeling unsure of the information that he sort of wished was true.

"And I used what I know about you to tell you about your nature."

John shifted, "But that doesn't sound like me."

"Confidence," Sherlock said after a moment, "Is something I should have added. You have not had ample opportunity to build your confidence in yourself."

"Is that your way of telling me to get laid?"

Sherlock laughed.

**3. Sherlock Holmes could be sweet.**

"Wait? So that's what you do? If they're bad in bed you just tell them and kick them out?"

Oh god, he was never ever sleeping with this man!

"How else will they learn?" Sherlock asked and then stopped to look around. Reassessing something, he changed their direction.

"We're going to the Red Lion-"

"This is a quicker route."

John nodded and followed, trailing behind his mind racing.

He'd been with two girls. Anna and Bridget. Anna had been a two month thing and Bridget had been an amazing week long marathon.

His experience with men was Sherlock. His experience with girls was, he could admit, limited. He didn't think he was bad – at least he gave a damn about whether his partners got off which, from some conversations, couldn't be said about some of his mates. But then they had experience so maybe it balanced out.

Sherlock would kick him out of bed so fast that John would probably be out the door before he finished.

Halfway there Sherlock stopped.

"Ah," he said turning suddenly. "Was that a bit close for comfort?"

Mortified John turned around. Fuck this, he was going home.

"John," Sherlock called after him, "John."

Nope. Ignoring you.

Back in the crowds, John started to weave through to get to the tube station. He managed to get within sight of it before Sherlock caught up with him.

"John."

"Can we not-"

But they were; Sherlock had somehow managed to shepherd John into a small alcove in the old station wall that was pretty much hidden in the shadows.

"No-one would kick you out," Sherlock said carefully.

"Great!" John nodded, trying not to focus on how bloody close they were.

"I'll show you."

What?

Suddenly aware he was pinned and not at all sure what was going on, John just stared at Sherlock.

"She was very rigid in her approach," Sherlock murmured, "Determined to dictate what we would like."

We? Oh, right. Three of them…

Then Sherlock kissed him.

It was not like before. John felt like he was being prodded and poked by the tongue and couldn't quite manage to engage with it. Startled he pulled away, as far as he could in his position, and glared at Sherlock who was looking amused.

"Then there was the other one," Sherlock shifted a bit. "Insipid."

This time when he leaned forward he slipped his tongue in and waggled it pathetically.

John giggled and pulled away. "That's bad."

"But manageable," Sherlock tapped at his chin, "Try to get a response."

This was possibly the weirdest thing he had ever done.

This time John tried to coax a reaction. There was some vague memory of doing this with a girl back home who had been his nervous first kiss. Carefully he lipped and nipped until it was Sherlock that pulled away.

"See?"

"Okay-"

"Now this is you-"

John almost protested but found his mouth captured again.

This time Sherlock responded to what John did and moved with him. He didn't push as much as he had done before or take control but he kept up, occasionally surprising John.

"See?" Sherlock pulled away. "Attitude John. Half the battle is the attitude. You keep up, you try, you have the ability to surprise and adapt," Sherlock stepped back. "The rest can be taught."

Feeling really thick, John nodded.

"Now, are we going to this pub?"

John nodded again.

"Are you going to speak?" Sherlock asked sounding a bit peeved.

"Soon," John said, lips still buzzing.

**4. John might be a bit kinky too.**

John stared at the things on the floor and slowly, specifically at the dildo and anal beads that were currently resting happily on his scuffed up trainers.

He was not touching them.

"Sherlock!"

A mop of dark hair peeked around the door, "Yes?"

John pointed at what was at his feet. "They're on my shoes," he said, trying to stay calm.

Sherlock snorted with laughter.

"Sherlock!"

His friend stalked in with all the grace of a cat and stood directly behind John, chin on his shoulder.

"That looks ridiculous," Sherlock commented.

"Get them off my shoe," John demanded.

"And where would you like me to move them to?" Sherlock enquired, sounding delighted at John's prudishness.

It wasn't meant as a suggestion; John knew enough variations of Sherlock's tones to know that, but the image hit him suddenly; a wonderful, slightly vague image of both of them using the things on John's shoes.

His breath hitched and Sherlock turned to his neck quickly.

The bastard was taking his pulse with his lips.

When Sherlock moved John knew he was in a world of trouble.

There had been times when John had seen Sherlock stalk someone. Usually John, sometimes someone that probably had a precious bag of coke, but this was like watching porn. Sherlock seemed to slide down John's body, those delicious eyes constantly on him and then picked up the toys on John's shoe.

John couldn't breathe

"You've never used these before, have you?"

John shook his head jerkily.

A light went on in Sherlock's eyes. "Interesting," he murmured, as if to himself.

Then stood and packed it all away as if John wasn't standing there trying to work out what the hell was going on.

The bastard still looked highly triumphant when John announced a minute later that he really needed to go home for ten to fifteen minutes

**5. Sherlock Holmes was hiding things.**

Then Sherlock was striding forward and grabbing John's arm, propelling them around the corner and away from the thumping club.

"Don't be too long or I'll share my score with someone else again!" Victor called with a sneer.

Yeah, well, wait till you meet Mycroft, John thought with a sneer. He's gonna glare!

And then he waited for the familiar sensation of having a wall at his back and Sherlock at his front. That was what usually happened when Sherlock dragged him somewhere.

But no, Sherlock was heading to a road…and a taxi rank.

"Uh…what are you-"

"You are going home," Sherlock hissed, sounding furious. "You should be studying."

"I'm having a break-"

Then Sherlock spun him, the bad kind that had John stumbling to keep his balance and Sherlock grabbing him by his upper arms.

"Do not do this again."

"Do what?"

"Follow me," Sherlock yelled.

"I wasn't! You were there!"

Sherlock dropped his grip and went for John's trouser-

-Phew, pockets.

"This," he said, pulling out John's phone, "Is a marvellous invention. Use it!"

"To what? Tell you I'm out and ask your permission?"

"Yes."

"Fuck you," John snarled. "Give me my phone."

But Sherlock wouldn't let go of it, "You are not a part of this John-"

"A part of what?"

"Of this area of my life." Sherlock sounded manic now. "Do you understand? You are not part of this?"

"Oh get over yourself, fine, I won't put my muddy paws on your shining perfect, party time. Happy?"

But Sherlock leaned in dangerously close. "You have got that entirely the wrong way round," he announced.

What was that supposed to mean?

Unless…

"Sherlock?" John breathed, mind racing. "I'm fine."

The phone was dropped into his hand along with twenty quid. "Go home John," Sherlock said in a heavy tone. "Now. You shouldn't be here."

"I'm not a kid," John muttered, the only thing he could think to say.

"But you are naïve."

Furious John yanked away and purposefully dropped the twenty as he stalked away.

Sherlock Holmes was confusing and complex and a whirl wind of experiences.

Sherlock Holmes was sweet and intoxicating and protective.

But John was far too aware that he couldn't have one without the other.

And far too aware that he wasn't really ready to handle either one.

Yet.


	7. One Thousand Pounds

Chapter Summary:Apparently playing Poker for pennies doesn't literally mean that when you are playing in a club. At night. With Kenny!

**One Thousand Pounds**

They hadn't spoken really since Sherlock bundled him in the direction of a taxi and John dumped Sherlock's money on the floor.

Mainly because of Victor (turd face) who seemed to have become surgically attached to Sherlock's face. And while John could sort of accept in his head that dating Sherlock now would be a bad idea, it didn't mean he wanted to see Victor attempt to lick Sherlock's throat from the inside.

Plus John was pretty sure that Victor was to blame for the fact that Sherlock's eyes looked redder than usual and his already legendary lack of patience had gotten even worse (which John could admit privately was bloody impressive).

But there were issues involved in that.

And not just the obvious ones like John missed Sherlock or found himself with far more tea than usual.

No.

John was broke. Clean broke. To the point where he had almost backtracked to where he had tossed away Sherlock's twenty on the off chance it had become invisible to all but him.

Alas, strangely, that didn't seem to be the case.

It wasn't as if it was completely John's fault; the house they all rented was dirt cheap (emphasis on dirt) and the books he bought were second hand when possible. Plus he was hardly as fashion conscious as say a certain beansprout that had followed him home months ago.

Granted the drinking and the takeaway and the drinking didn't help but all in all John did better than most of his mates.

The problem was his mates didn't have John's mum.

Rebecca Watson was once a brilliant mum and that, sadly has been because John's dad had been a fantastic Dad. Once the divorce happened, then the pesky business with John's step-father, then his Dad's death, she had become a little less brilliant.

And a little less mum-like.

"But Phil doesn't really want kids cluttering up the house," she had told him at the end of June. "Besides, haven't you paid for the house over the summer as well?"

"Well yeah-"

"Then it would be a waste to come home really, wouldn't it?"

John had stared at the phone helplessly, "But I have to eat!"

"Well Phil says that you should be fine. I'll help you out if you like, I can send you twenty quid if you like."

Harry had been in the same boat. Evidently "Phil" wasn't a fan on money going from their mothers pocket to them.

"I'm crashing at a mates as it is," she said sounding hungover. "I would help John but, I have nothing to spare."

John nodded, "Yeah, it's fine. I'll be fine, just wanted the back-up really."

"You're such an old man!" Harry complained.

"Yeah," John reached out and switched off the light, knowing it would save like a third of a penny. "Sure."

John picked up a few hours a week at a sandwich bar which paid pittance but at least meant he got fed and could pay for beans and bread.

He was sick of it!

The others came back for Andy's birthday – or birthday week of epicness as Andy named it (god he could be a prick) and John managed two days before he wanted to kick at something.

He was overdrawn, hungry and bored. And they weren't helping. Which is exactly how he found himself with Kenny of all people at a club he had never, ever gone to in his life playing poker.

And losing.

£1000.

One thousand pounds.

John tried not to hyperventilate.

This time it really hadn't been his fault. And, for once not Kenny's either.

Though Kenny's brother was a fucking arsehole.

"It's in pennies," Ralph (Kenny's brother's mate) had said. "You'll be fine."

Who the hell gambled with thousands of pounds on a Sunday night?

Kenny, to be fair had shot Ralph a look within the first few minutes. John had shot him a look seconds later.

But, as it became obvious by the raising bets that Ralph was a tosser, John had been stuck.

You did not pull out of this kind of poker game.

"So. Pay up."

John looked at Kenny in horror. Kenny was slightly better at Poker than John was and has only lost £200.

"You bastard!" Kenny muttered to Ralph.

"Your brother stiffed me," Ralph hissed, "I told him I'd get me money one way or the other."

Kenny has just shook his head and sighed, "Let me go to the cashpoint," he said bowing his head in defeat, "John?"

Yeah! John could just imagine what would happen if he tried to withdraw a thousand pounds. The cash machine would probably start laughing its head off.

"I…can't," he said taking a deep breath. "You said it was pennies."

Fuck, he have had a job at scrapping the ten quid together!

Ralph looked at his mate who everyone seemed to be referring to as "Four Beats". And if everyone was using a nickname with a guy who looked like he was likely to pull a cigar and gun out of his pocket then John was screwed.

"It is pennies," Four Beats said with a smile, "To us."

"Yeah," John looked and realised with dawning horror that Kenny had vanished. "I…I…" he tried to get himself under control. "Look, I honestly can't pay you. But my loan is in in September-"

"Why would I wait that long?"

"Because I can't pay!" John looked between them, "I swear, it was really stupid I know, but I thought you actually meant pennies at first! And you wouldn't let me leave-"

Four Beats shook his head in a theatrically disappointed manner, "Johnny Boy, this is why little boys don't play at the grown-ups table."

Do not panic.

Slowly John started to control his breathing and relax his shoulders. Then, trying to stay calm, looked around.

Five guys sat around the room watching and Four Beats was reclined in his booth.

Breathe out. "What are you gonna do?" John asked, impressed that his voice didn't wobble.

Four Beats raised an eyebrow, "Good boy," he said approvingly leaning forward, "Can you find the money?"

Logically. Think logically.

"Maybe…half of it, at a push." If he sold everything that would keep him at the uni. He shook his head, "Unless you have some suggestions?"

Four Beats smiled and beckoned him closer.

How John managed to put one foot on front of the other he would never know. Snakelike in his movement, Four Beats struck and grabbed John roughly by the chin.

"£400 now," Four Beats said nodding, his face uncomfortably close to John's.

"I'll pay you the rest in September."

Oh god he was fucked if he did that. He might as well sign up to the sandwich shop for the rest of his life and pick out his shop door.

"No."

No? Confused John looked at Four Beats. He didn't seem like the type that would be doing John a favour.

"I think you'll find that there's interest on these sorts of things."

"How much?" John asked amazed he still had a voice left.

"How much is your loan?"

John opened his mouth. That was his whole future; every plan he had-

"What are you studying for?" Four Beats asked, his fingers digging in even more.

"I…a doctor. I want to be a doctor."

"And you need the money to do that."

John nodded, "Anything, I just-"

"You can find more money," Four Beats said soothingly. "But not new fingers."

There was someone behind him. Terrified John tried to move away but the hand clamped down on his shoulder as Four Beats drew out a cigar cutter.

The metal slid over his middle finger and John couldn't move, couldn't breathe-

"Have I made my point?"

John nodded as much as he could in the harsh grip.

Then he was released.

"I want as much as you can manage by Friday." Four Beats smiled. "We'll renegotiate then."

Outside John sucked in air like he was a drowning man.

Like a fucking dead man.

"I'm so sorry," Kenny said after a moment, "John, seriously I had no idea-"

John nodded, "Yeah, it's fine. Figured. I mean it'd be a fucking over-reaction to me grinding up laxatives in your sugar."

Kenny let out a strangled laugh, "Seriously?"

John nodded, "Gotta say I'm feeling less guilty about it now," He gulped in air until he felt lightheaded. "Fuck," he added, scrapping a hand across his face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Look…" Kenny stood off the wall and licked his lips nervously, "I've got a hundred and fifty. Then I'm screwed but I got you into this so, if you want it…"

John sighed and shook his head, "It's the interest," John said trying to remember how to stand, "That's what's gonna cripple me."

"Fuck!" Andy said shaking his head, "Shit John, I…" he looked at the others who all seemed similarly stunned.

"Look, right, between us we can come up with the £400," Paul said shifting forwards. "I mean it'll be a scrape but you won't have to sell things."

John shook his head, "No…I mean god yes, thank you but if I can pay it all off now then I might just manage it."

"And…I will clean and wash and be your slave until the day you graduate," he promised. "I…thank you so much."

£928

It was all he could manage.

But there was one person he hadn't tried yet.

Relatively sure Sherlock was still at the address, John rang the buzzer.

Only to have fucking turd face open the door.

Victor smiled and leaned against the hallway wall lazily, showing off an impressive hickey. "John!"

"Is he in?"

Victor nodded, "I wore him out."

"I just need five minutes," To beg.

"He's asleep," Victor said, not sounding at all sorry about it. "Told me to say children can come back later."

"Yeah, I don't have later-" John said and shoved his way past.

Oh Christ he was shoving his way in to ask for money. This was not good in any shape or form.

And stopped dead at the sight of Sherlock cutting cocaine on the coffee table.

"Oh!"

Sherlock's gaze slid past John to Victor. "One job," he sighed shaking his head, "That was all I asked of you."

"What can I say, he was desperate." Victor replied sounding utterly unapologetic.

Everything in him wanted to turn around, to not ask but he could still feel the metal on his finger…

Pale eye narrowed dangerously.

"Get out," Sherlock said standing and wrapping his dressing gown up tightly.

John turned.

"No, not you," Sherlock snapped. "Victor, go."

Victor looked like he'd just swallowed a bee. "I'll take my coke then."

There was a flicker of hesitation in Sherlock's face and he looked back at the table.

What was the point? To John's horror he could almost feel tears of sheer frustration, exhaustion and terror start to fill in his eyes. Four Beats would probably demand interest for days not paid and it would go on and on-

"Take this to cover your "expenses'," Sherlock said, thrusting money at Victor.

John watched it and looked at Sherlock who suddenly pulled it back from Victor.

"How much?" he murmured seeming taken aback.

"Seventy two," John said miserably.

"That's very exact," Sherlock snapped. "How much in total then?"

"I'm not asking for that," John kicked at the carpet, "I just need the extra seventy two."

"Sherlock-" Victor started to say in a put-upon voice.

"Take the fucking coke," Sherlock snapped.

Sherlock almost threw John into his room as he and Victor "cleaned up" the living room.

The door went and Sherlock wandered in, somehow dressed, and shut the door behind him carefully.

"I'm sorry, John said to the floor, "I…had no-where else to go to."

"Seventy pounds," Sherlock tossed the money on the bed.

John stared at it. "I…Um…seventy two pounds."

"I'm sure you can find two pounds spare."

Maybe…maybe if he looked on his way back there would be some spare change-

"How much?" Sherlock snarled.

"A thousand pounds," John breathed closing his eyes, feeling utterly stupid.

There was a pause and John was bloody glad he couldn't see the expression on Sherlock's face.

"You sold your father's watch."

"Yeah," John looked down at the bare wrist, "Well I think he'd prefer me to have fingers so-"

"Fingers?" Sherlock's voice had turned to ice.

"Yeah."

Pale eyes narrowed dangerously and then Sherlock knelt between John's legs where he was sitting at the edge of the bed. "What happened?" he asked firmly.

So John told him.

"He threw you out?" Andy asked in stunned amazement, "The wanker!"

John shrugged, "It's his money Andy; he doesn't have to help."

He purposefully ignored the pounding, horrified feeling that wouldn't leave him alone.

Friday. Noon.

John couldn't stop flexing his fingers to check they were there. Over and over again he flexed, trying to remember the feeling just in case.

Oh god he didn't want to do this.

Every step to the door was like a step to the execution block.

He'd begged an advance. £946. It was likely the richest he would ever be.

One foot in front of the other. And again. And again.

The guy at the door gave him a strange look as he walked in.

You can do this, John told himself. You can do this.

Walking into the main room in the day time was slightly uninspiring. What had looked opulent and expensive just looked cheap and tacky in the daylight.

Apart from Sherlock who just looked-

Sherlock?

Stopping dead John felt his jaw drop a little.

Sherlock was sat at the table, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world while Four Beats was doing something in his lap.

Were they friends?

Sherlock, who had looked over at him, rolled his eyes and then scrubbed at his forehead with two fingers as if just looking at John gave him a headache.

Four Beats glanced over at him, then skittered his look back to Sherlock, before returning to his lap.

Get it over with.

John let out a shaken breath and started to reach into his jacket pocket-

Sherlock was up in a flash, gripping his wrist and pulling him forward. Minutely he shook his head at John.

When John looked around this time, it was with a new purpose. Four Beats was basically on his own and everything was very quiet. The table looked as if it had been the stage of…

Of a poker game.

"What did you do?" John mouthed at Sherlock warily.

Sherlock smiled, "Call it poetic justice," he pulled back with a last commanding look at John's pocket.

Do not get the money out.

Hesitantly John followed Sherlock to the table, just in case Four Beats was secretly assembling a knife or something. He probably shouldn't let Sherlock get stabbed for trying to help.

"Do you need a calculator?" Sherlock muttered as he bowed over the chair to reach the table. "This is getting tedious."

"Don't push it," Four Beats snarled.

Sherlock looked twistedly amused and turned back to John. Then he did that "I'm observing your pin number" look that made John want to squirm.

Sniffing, Sherlock leaned forward further and plucked up the cigar cutter. Four Beats stopped what he was doing and started to watch Sherlock instead.

Inspecting it as if it had a bloody treasure map engraved on it, Sherlock stepped back and did a few experimental cuts with it. Four Beats eyes slid to John who swallowed at the memory.

"It was a joke," For Beats said, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Ain't my fault if the kid didn't know that."

"Of course," Sherlock placed it on the table. "You could barely cut a cigar with that it's so blunt."

Seemingly satisfied, Four Beats returned to counting his money.

Sherlock opened one of the cigar cases and pulled one out easily. "This however," he pulled one out of his pocket, "Cuts wonderfully."

There was a snicker-snack noise and the butt fell off beautifully. Four Beats went white.

Placing the cigar in his mouth Sherlock pulled a lighter out of his pocket, setting the cutter down on the table as he lit up. "This is taking an extraordinary amount of time," he muttered sitting. "Are you attempting to delay the inevitable?"

"I'm paying you!" Four Beats snarled.

"How long did he give you?" Sherlock asked suddenly turning to John. "Before he slipped his dull little contraption onto your finger?"

"Uh…"John looked around. "I don't-"

"Longer than five minutes?" Sherlock asked politely, as if John's answer couldn't possibly be no.

Licking his lips nervously, John shook his head.

"Oh dear," Sherlock turned his head back to Four Beats. "Hand-"

"No!" Four Beats suddenly seemed to speed up. "I'm fucking counting! He didn't have anything."

Sherlock's hand shot out and pulled Four Beats forward making John jump. The words were too quiet to overhear but after a minute Sherlock let Four Beats' wrist go, flicking at his fingers afterwards as if he may have caught a disease.

Awkward John looked around, feeling weird that he was starting to feel a little…

Bored?

Sherlock kicked a chair out. "Sit," he said brightly as he smoked. "Evidently this will take a while."

There wasn't even a tiny bit of John that wanted to get that close to Four Beats again, but his legs had felt like jelly the entire walk to the bar and he desperately wanted to collapse somewhere.

And god did he want to sleep.

Slipping into the chair, and holding himself as if he expected Four Beats to suddenly lunge up like some Bond villain and announce they had fallen into his evil trap, John let out a long breath.

Sherlock on the other hand, shifted, looking utterly at home on the chair. "Here," he pushed some cards at John. "You deal."

"I…I what?" John yelped and looked at Four Beats as if he would have an answer.

Four Beats seemed to be avoiding looking at either one of them.

"John if you don't even know how to deal you really shouldn't be playing poker," Sherlock chided.

"I...I know how to deal. I don't want to-"

"Why?"

"I don't know maybe because the last time I did, this happened!" John huffed, sitting back and forgetting his earlier nerves. "Snip-snip!" he added, his fingers moving like scissors.

Next to him Four Beats winced and sped up fractionally.

"So you've learned your lesson?" Sherlock asked, blowing smoke up into the air.

"Yes," emphatically yes!

"No more playing poker until I teach you how to play properly?"

"Yes…no..." John glared at him, "Wouldn't it just be easier not to play Poker?"

Sherlock gave Four Beats such a foul, dangerous look that John saw the man's hand shake for a moment just from the weight of it. "If you've made him boring, you won't live to see your next hustle!" Sherlock sneered.

"He threatened to chop off my fingers! I'm not being boring I'm being-" John cut himself off. "Can we just talk about this later?"

"Why? We have time now. Still!" Sherlock added glaring at the ceiling. "Honestly, how hard is it to count fifteen thousand?"

"I don't…" John's jaw dropped even further and he turned to stare at Four Beats. "Fifteen?" he asked with disbelief.

"And he didn't even have the excuse that he thought we were playing for pennies!" Sherlock added smugly.

"Ten," Four Beats announced, putting a wad onto the table.

John stared at the amount in awe. Sherlock just sighed, as if deathly bored with the whole thing and reached for the cutter again.

"Give me a minute!"

"I've given you endless minutes," Sherlock glared at him, but, after a glance at John put the cutter down. "Though why you used a punch hole cutter to threaten anyone is beyond me. The Guillotine is far more useful for such threats."

John glared at him, "Oh yeah, that was the distressing thing about this week. I just couldn't sleep for horror at the fact he was threatening to use the wrong kind of cutter to remove my fingers. It would have been so embarrassing for him!"

Sherlock frowned, "You didn't sleep?"

"Oh God," John leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "This is surreal," he mumbled. "Do you see what I have to put up with?" he asked, turning to Four Beats out of sheer habit to find a sane person after a conversation with Sherlock.

Four Beats stared at him in disbelief while Sherlock snorted sounding delighted.

John stared and found a manic grin starting to pull at his lips. Shaking his head he stared at the cigar-cutter and let out an amused breath.

"Fine," he said, picking up the cards. "But no cheating."

"How will you learn to play otherwise?" Sherlock asked him, looking gleeful.

"Shut up," John started to deal.

Outside John grinned up at Sherlock. "I…thank you!" he said shaking his head, "Seriously…I thought…" John let out a breath, "I thought I was gonna be in debt with him forever the way he was threatening the interest."

"You never mentioned interest," Sherlock seemed peeved as they walked into the high street and flagged a taxi.

"It doesn't matter!" John slid into the taxi bonelessly, immensely grateful for Sherlock's seemingly magical ability to hail them. "I still have fingers," he grinned down and waggled them.

Sherlock watched his fingers dance, then stepped forward and drew the cover across, blocking the driver from view before sitting back and pressing at the speaker to jam it.

"What you doing?" John cheeped.

Sherlock pulled out the envelopes Four Beats had given him. "Here," he pushed the smaller envelope at John.

"You want me to hold onto it?"

"Have it."

John laughed, "Yeah, whatever!"

Sherlock's expression didn't even flicker and John felt something strange kick in his belly.

"I…you can't be serious?"

"Think of it as a finder's fee if it makes you feel better. I made ten thousand pounds today because you brought that idiot to my attention."

"There's five thousand pounds in here," John whispered stunned, his mind barely able to process that information, let alone the fact that Sherlock was trying to give him that amount.

Long fingers hesitated around his hands, a gentle touch, summoning John's attention.

"Why didn't she let you go home?" Sherlock asked seeming suddenly very serious.

John didn't need to ask who Sherlock was talking about. And that was the issue wasn't it? The one none of his friends had asked.

Why had John been strapped for cash in the first place?

"I…it's not her fault," John stared at his shoes, his mind supplying plenty of reasons as to why his mother had been in a difficult position. The problem was his mind also supplied a dozen counterarguments for each of those reasons.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, seemingly dropping the issue, and took the envelope out of John's hands. Pulling him forward, Sherlock slipped the envelope into John's back pocket.

"A precaution then," Sherlock said softly. "Until you learn to play better."

Weakly laughing John risked looking at him.

They were so close. Darting a glance down at Sherlock's lips John breathed in shakily as Sherlock leaned in further, his fingers stroking at John's again as he brushed their lips together.

There was something strangely comforting about it and John leaned forward, eager for any relief after the past few days. Sherlock seemed content to breathe him in, one hand sliding up around John's head.

Then suddenly the hand locked tight into his hair.

Startled John's eyes flew open as Sherlock gripped his hand in a vice like lock and moved his lips to John's ear. "Tell me," Sherlock whispered. "Why? Why was I the last one you came to? Why didn't you come straight to me the second you left there on Sunday night?"

That had so not been what John had been expecting. Strangely unbothered by the grip on him and more uncomfortable with the question, John stared over Sherlock's shoulder at the seat behind.

"Because I…" John shifted and restrained a gasp when the movements brushed Sherlock's lips against his ear lobe. "Lots of reasons," he said pathetically.

"I'm waiting."

"Because…I didn't want you to think I was using you. You're always doing things for me or bailing me out of something and I do nothing for you. And…and I hate seeing turd face all over you. I know that's stupid, but I still hate it and I didn't want you to think of me as some stupid kid. Or naive," he added, remembering that awful conversation a month ago.

Sherlock pulled back and seemed to study him. For a long moment John kept perfectly still, licking at his lips expectantly.

Then Sherlock moved away and sat back on his seat, "Idiot," Sherlock said fondly as he shifted to make himself comfortable.

Wait, that was it?

"You should put it somewhere safe." Sherlock, looked out of the window smiling. "And not in the freezer."

Right…

"So, behind the toilet tank?" John asked hoarsely.

Sherlock's smile grew as he continued to look out. "I was thinking the bank," he said, clearly trying not to laugh.


	8. The Games We Play

Chapter Summary: John decides to try out gay clubs; cause he is a bit gay right?

* * *

**The Games we Play**

**University Year Three: September**

The door opened as John stumbled through it, landing face first on the carpet.

Fuck they needed to hoover…did they have a hoover?

The light clicked on.

"Productive evening?"

Standing seemed like far, far too much hard work right now. Instead John rolled over and stared up at Sherlock who didn't look quite as stunning from that angle.

Still fucking hot though.

"I am wankered," John announced staring up at Sherlock.

"Yes you are," Sherlock sighed. "Will you be staying there all night?"

That wasn't what John wanted to talk about.

"I," he said, raising his hand because that made sure people listened. "Went to a gay bar. And it was gay."

The half-smile on Sherlock's face dropped away. "What?"

"Gay," John explained frowning down at his feet which were still on the doorstep. "My feet are very cold." That was a problem. Looking back up at Sherlock John sighed, "If I roll away, I'm going to throw up," he said seriously.

In the light Sherlock looked very pale. Paler. White.

Pretty colours.

What had they been talking about?

"Spinning," John announced.

Seeming very put upon, Sherlock reached out, picked up the bowl that some well-meaning parent (not John's 'cause, you know, he didn't have one of those) had given them for washing up but had quickly become the sick bowl and placed it next to John, before suddenly wrenching him up.

John hurled.

"Geoff threw you out?" John gasped, wishing he could just die as he hugged the toilet.

Sherlock was sitting against the bath. "I have never lived with anyone called Geoff," he said texting.

"Oh." John leaned his head on the toilet seat and cherished the coolness against his forehead. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Okay…well, why did he throw you out?"

"Too loud," Sherlock seemed far more interested in his phone.

John nodded, then groaned, "Oh my god, kill me," he whimpered into the toilet. "Just kill me."

"This is why you shouldn't drink cocktails. Especially ones that have been bought for you," Sherlock muttered.

"They looked fruity."

Sherlock, when John risked his life to glance, seemed unimpressed, "Did they have an umbrella too?" he asked snidely.

"Hey," John pointed in vaguely the right direction, "I'm the boss of the house and you should be nice to me."

"The boss of the house?"

"There was a vote." John shrugged, "I won by default. They were drunk. I rule."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Finished yet?" he asked.

"Still dying," John replied miserably.

Sherlock's foot slid up his leg and John frowned-

Then the foot shoved into his stomach and John hurled again.

Sherlock was a bad nursemaid! After ensuring John had thrown up every single thing he'd had past his lips for the past month, he then shoved him into his room and onto his bed all the while bitching about everything.

"Really this is a pig sty-"

"You're a pig sty," John replied as he tried to suffocate himself in his pillow.

"You are capable of far more creative insults that that John."

That was true.

John rolled over and studied Sherlock who was batting away the old socks that were on the desk.

"You…" John pointed his finger, "You..."

"Yes?" Sherlock seemed to give up the battle with the socks (maybe he'd smelled them) and sat on the chair instead, as god had intended, to wait for the insult.

"Are a tease," John announced triumphantly. "That's what you are. My new fried Gay Alf-"

Sherlock rubbed at his forehead as if in pain.

"-said so. And now I have to become a man slut to stop the teasing."

Sherlock, after a wince, wrenched the sheets off of John and went for his jeans-

"Always the pocket, never the zip," John announced mournfully as Sherlock once again stole his phone. "And don't take my phone!"

"I'm deleting."

Deleting was Sherlock's newest thing. He seemed to think he'd merged with computers at some point and had started rambling on about hard drives yesterday.

"That means you have an enter button," John decided happily.

Sherlock gave him a look, "I'm deleting from your phone you idiot."

"No. like phone," John argued sleepily. "It's clever."

"John," Sherlock sounded a little odd now, "Have you looked at your texts?"

"I don't want to read," John murmured. Why the hell wouldn't the man stop talking?

"How many people did you give your number to?"

John shook his head and tapped on his arm.

"You bloody idiot!"

John crawled out of bed at three in the afternoon, sure that he must have surgically inserted small men with wires and hammers into his brain.

Andy winced at the sight of him, "Where the hell did you get to last night?" he asked. "We lost you after the third pub."

There were vague images of drink and lights and dancing. "I don't know but I think I drank the place," John whimpered. "Thanks for the water by the way."

"Weren't me," Andy said. "Sherlock did it."

"Sherlock's here?" John tried to focus on standing up without curling into a pathetic ball.

"Yeah, he won't stop texting."

That wasn't a surprise.

Until John walked in and saw it was his phone.

"Why-"

"Look at your arm," Sherlock replied in a bored tone.

The wind knocked out of him, John looked down.

There, in thick black pen, was his phone number, scrawled in easily readable big numbers.

"I must say, you certainly know how to advertise," Sherlock added as John's phone went off again. "This one wants to 'show you what you're missing', whatever that means."

And all of a sudden a really dreadful memory reared up. One where he announced to god knew how many "close personal friends" of Gay Alf's that he wanted to try sucking cock to see if it was for him.

And that he wasn't fussy.

"Nonononono!" John collapsed on the chair, "Oh god no."

"Indeed!"

"They've been texting?" John asked feeling as if he needed a drink. "Seriously? I was so drunk!"

"I noticed from your love affair with the doormat."

Wait!

"You've been reading the texts?" John asked. That was worse, because Sherlock was Sherlock and there was no way he'd not been able to read between the lines and work out what had happened last night.

"I was bored."

Staring at Sherlock mournfully John staggered to his feet. "I'm gonna try and drown myself in the shower," he announced.

"You could always take Big Dave up in his offer to drown in another type of fluid."

"Shut up!"

"You have to come out again!" Gay Alf argued, chugging back a Corona. "It was hardly a fair test, you were so rat arsed that it would have been wrong to have tried anything."

John had his head buried in his arms as he sat slumped at the bar. "My mate texted everyone back," John managed to pull his head up a little, "I'll be chased out of town knowing him!"

"Come on…" Gay Alf wheedled. "Try!"

"I need vodka," John declared after a moment and Gay Alf grinned triumphantly.

It was hot in the club, hot and sweaty and god dancing could be so much fun!

Ok so maybe he was a little bit gay!

There was something freeing in this; girls never really flocked over and paid attention to him like this. Apparently being 'new' got him some degree of attention and John felt like liquid sex at the moment. Hands were pressed against him, delicious clever hands and, taking a risk, John leaned back a little. The guy behind him seemed to take notice and ducked down to his neck so John just rested his head on their shoulder and looked to the side to reassure himself that Gay Alf, as promised, was still at the bar.

As was Victor.

Victor?

Shit!

Yelping John froze and the guy at his neck pulled back questioningly. With an apologetic smile John disentangled himself from the dancing crowd and ended up half crouching to the side of the dance floor and then peeking over a table to stare at Victor.

Fuck!

Ducking under the table, god only knew why, John whipped out his phone.

_Am at Back Door club. Just in case you're here with turd face_

And then hugged his phone to him until the message beeped.

_I noticed. The floor is filthy. Get up. SH _

If there was ever any possible way to sink through the floor, John was sure he would have found it.

Sheepishly John returned to Gay Alf whose eyes had followed him from the moment he'd stood up from under the table.

"You're weird Watson," he announced as soon as John was within hearing age. "This is why people call us queer."

"Please don't talk about it," John sat next to him. "So, you seen Sherlock around?"

"Toilets," Gay Alf said eyeing someone up. "Oh! Don't go in there!" he added suddenly.

It was a toss-up as to whether that was because Sherlock was doing cocaine or Victor.

"You like him," Gay Alf said.

"Yeah, we're mates."

Then he got the look that more and more people were giving him.

"Yeah," John admitted, suddenly serious. "But…he…it's complicated."

Gay Alf smiled suddenly and took John's hand. "Let's uncomplicate it then!"

With that he drew John into the mass of heaving bodies and straight towards a few guys that, from the heat of the club had stripped off their tops.

"Wait-"

Gay Alf twisted and plucking John by his hips backed him into one of the guys as if he was a wall.

Christ the guy was built!

"It's the oldest trick in the book," Gay Alf pressed against him and whispered in his ear. "Don't worry, it's early; no-one will push too hard."

An arm was wrapping around John's chest and a button was being undone.

"It's exactly what you were doing earlier," Gay Alf added, working from the top down. "Just with the added benefit of a potential audience!"

John could see his point, sort of!

Relaxing again he grinned at Gay Alf who was a fucking fantastic dancer, able to draw people in with ease and a grin that made what he was doing look like pure fun.

But John could see from Gay Alf's eyes when Sherlock came back in. There was a narrowed grin in them and he pressed just a bit closer.

"Oh I think he likes you too!" Alf arched to talk into John's ear in a move that must be illegal.

But John knew that.

What was the point of this again?

"You're thinking way too much!" Gay Alf nestled a knuckle under John's chin and pushed his head up to meet the mouth of the man behind him.

The kiss was filthy, almost bordering on mouth molestation in John's opinion. "Uh-" he said into the mouth. "Maybe-"

His shirt, open now, was smoothed to the side and hands ran up his chest, too many for John to count.

Uh…

Not at all sure about where this was going, John tried to wriggle his mouth away to see what was going on so he could assess the situation. He had a nagging feeling he was in danger of being pulled apart in the middle of the dance floor. But the hand tilting his chin up wasn't moving and to pull away now would require more force than perhaps the situation warranted.

At the moment. If anyone started on his trousers he'd deck them.

And then the hand drew away and John gasped for air, released from the kiss. The hands (most of them) had vanished and it was back to just a nice, fun dance.

Gay Alf seemed to have disappeared…wait, no, there he was.

With Sherlock.

At first John glared; it looked like the pair were dancing but Gay Alf was subdued and, as they moved, it was very clear that Sherlock was talking very quickly in Gay Alf's ear.

No longer fuelled by Gay Alf's scheme, the others eventually danced away and John, buttoning up his shirt after a sudden remembrance, wandered back to the bar again, feeling a little confused.

What the hell was going on?

"Bit out of your depth?" Victor asked reclining at the bar.

John shrugged and ordered a drink of water.

"You shouldn't be here John," Victor continued. "You have no idea how annoying this is for me!"

"Why? Because you're sitting here and he's off dancing?" John knocked back the water. "I haven't said a word to his face all night. It's not my fault."

"It is." Victor's eyes were utterly focused on Sherlock. "It's like having a younger sibling tagging along and always getting into trouble. In fact," Victor took a sip, "That's exactly what this situation is like."

That stung more than John wanted to admit. Trying not to show any reaction he took another sip.

"We were talking about it the other day," Victor mused, "After we finished fucking. And my god can he fuck. I always get so distracted when I go over; I mean the choice! There's nothing the man isn't good at."

Do not react. Do not react.

"We were talking about your little crush. Well, he was. I was trying to get us off the subject so I had his cock in my mouth at the time." Victor smiled, "Strangely he forgot to complain about you quite quickly after that."

The thing was, Victor didn't seem as if he'd be going anywhere without getting some kind of reaction.

John put his drink down.

"If I know one thing about Sherlock, it's that no-one forces him to do anything, least of all me, and he's certainly never had a problem shaking off people before," John said trying to keep his voice calm. "So, given that little fact, I can only assume the reason you're banging on about this is because you're jealous."

Victor's face turned an ugly shade of red. "Of you?" he sneered.

John met him stare for stare. "I think you're mad personally," he added. "Sherlock and I are friends, nothing more. It's all in your head Victor. As you said; you're the one fucking him."

"But the fact remains John," Victor looked a little more in control now. "That you wish you were too."

"No I don't," John said honestly.

"No," Victor smirked, "I suppose you'd want something a little…more committed than that."

Unsure of how to deal with that John looked away.

"He can be so focussed," Victor almost purred in his ear. "It's like being the centre of the world. And you know what he's like at observing things. Every touch, every way of eliciting a whimper is memorised. And his fingers…" John could hear the smirk there, "Such clever, clever fingers John."

And he was trapped again, back in the same position, but off balance now, lost as to how to get out of this situation.

"Stop it," he muttered and inwardly shook his head.

That was like a red rag to a bull.

"Why?" Victor asked. "You ceaselessly upset me with your actions. You should I stop?"

John swallowed anything else back.

"Go home John. If we want to go down the innocent little school boy routine we'll give you a call."

Part of him wanted to stay, to flirt and prove Victor wrong, but the idea of doing something, anything just to prove a point seemed far more pathetic.

He'd lost and no matter what he did, that fact would remain.

John stared at the bar.

"When he gets going he's like a-"

John stood and walked away.


	9. Interlude: Sherlock

**WARNING**

This is pretty angsty (being from Sherlock's pov). It is also, in many ways not strictly necessary to read so if it is not your thing then you don't need to read it to understand the story. It basically overlaps last chapter and what will be next chapter.

**Graphic Drug Use, descriptions of cocaine, heroin and speed usage. Also various methods of taking them! **

* * *

**Interlude: Sherlock**

John hadn't come back. The idiot had dragged himself to the pub for a fry up and had evidently met someone out. Probably Alfred Baird, colloquially known as "gay Alf" because there had been two Alf's in his house when he had been at university.

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the slight nagging craving in his blood.

They couldn't go on like this.

How it had happened Sherlock wasn't entirely sure, which seemed to be a running theme where John Watson was concerned.

John Watson.

It was such a sensible, plain name. Common enough to give Sherlock very little clue about his home life and parents. It had certainly seemed strange on a boy who grinned up at him with hazed drunk eyes whose colour was hard to identify.

He should have fucked him there and then and got it over with.

But John Watson was even more addictive than the cocaine that was currently starting to pull at Sherlock to top up what was in his veins. In his entire life, Sherlock had never met anyone like John; never met anyone who made friends so easily, who was so accepting and open and bloody honest. Never been more fascinated by the blush that crept up on John's cheeks when he rambled, or the infections chuckles that made Sherlock's mouth twitch in response.

And John was indomitable. Even sitting in that terrible club with Four Beats (dreadful name) John had been unchanged. Nervous, scared, but still alive and smiling and unafraid of Sherlock. That had been the most terrifying aspect, more so than the chilling prospect that John could have lost his entire future that day.

John wasn't pulling away from Sherlock. He wasn't disgusted or disappointed by what he saw. Infuriated and long suffering yes, but he was still holding out his hand to Sherlock.

There was a dreadful, dreadful possibility that nothing Sherlock did would stop John from waiting for him.

No, that was wrong. John wasn't waiting for him, or at least not completely. John was willing to be whatever Sherlock wanted or needed. John was simply willing to be in his life.

_I went to a gay club._

Sitting up on John's bed, Sherlock frowned, remembering the text messages from the saccharine to the obscene.

All wanting John.

John wasn't a naturally shy character; he lacked self-confidence. Sherlock had seen him in situations where John took the lead without having a clue he was doing it; had seen John at the centre of a party gently nudging the atmosphere back to pleasant without knowing what he was doing. It was fascinating to watch him start to develop into that confident person who could unobtrusively control a room but equally relieving to know that John thought himself useless when it came to relationships with the opposite sex. Too unsure of himself, too sweet, too kind for girls his age to really pay attention. Lack of self-confidence in that area was often the biggest reason boys like him were overlooked by girls that age.

Give him a few years and that would all change.

But men were different. It was a different dynamic, a different role; they would take one look at John's eager to please grin, inscrutable eyes, his lack of experience and enjoy the challenge; the opportunity to start from scratch.

John had never shown any interest in going to gay bars. It had been as if Sherlock was his one homosexual outlet (which Sherlock had been perfectly content with).

Why? Why now?

It wouldn't be possible to watch. To see John taken by the hand and pulled into that world; the world that Sherlock…

What? Had wanted to show him?

Not yet!

He didn't want a relationship. He didn't want the constrictions, the ties, the expectations. Certainly the last made his heckles raise. A relationship meant that John would start making demands about the drugs, the sex, the illegal activities, his time and future.

And within reason, perhaps. Both the sex and the drugs came with health risks and personal entanglements that were less than ideal. And he needed to finish learning, experiencing. He needed to finish trying what was available to him to decide what he wanted to do.

John was meant to come after, when everything was sorted, when Sherlock was ready and the entirety of London knew his name. John was meant to wait.

That was foolish, even Sherlock with his inherent selfish ways knew that, but the hope had been there. Perhaps he hadn't realised quite how much he had held on to that hope, but the fact remained.

John wanted to try a homosexual relationship. Either Sherlock let him get on with it and trampled down his own personal feelings about it, or he ensured that, as previously, John's only knowledge of such a relationship was exclusively in Sherlock's hands.

Friends with benefits, wasn't that what Andy had called it.

John wouldn't be good at that. But Sherlock wouldn't be good at the first idea.

Who did he bet on?

There were other complications too.

Namely Victor Trevor.

"Want some?"

Yes.

Victor leaned forward, grinning briefly and Sherlock could see the fine powder scrubbed across his gums. Knowing this game well, he met him, prying his lips apart with his mouth and delving his tongue in to scoop up the cocaine that Victor seemed to think was as abundant as sugar.

It was just the kind of spoilt brat behaviour one could expect from the nephew of one of the most important drug dealers in London.

Satisfied he's gotten what he could, Sherlock pulled back, trying to relax and wait for the high to kick in. "Money's on the table," he muttered, inclining his head slightly at his bedroom door.

"Do you mind if I..?" Victor asked and Sherlock could hear the strap sliding between his fingers.

Shifting Sherlock held out his arm, clenching a fist to make it easier to find the vein.

The pinprick of the needle barely made Sherlock flinch.

"More?" Victor asked, after pumping the compressor. His voice sounded cracked and very far away, despite the fact that he was right next to Sherlock.

Good. He'd actually used the correct dosage this time.

Sherlock nodded as the ringing sound started to cut through his head, ending any useless thought processes and reigning him back into what was important. He needed to work out a solution to the 'John Problem' as he was starting to call it.

Then Victor's mouth was on him again.

The 'John problem' was not helped when Sherlock walked in to Back Door and spotted John within about three point seven seconds of stepping into the main room.

In all the years he'd known John he had never seen him like this.

The usually dirty blond, mousy hair was soaked with sweat from the heat of the club and the dancing. It shone a slick brown gold against his flushed skin as he grinned up at the male he was dancing with. His eyes were dark in the club light and his red cheeks made them even darker. At some point he must have splashed his face with water –

No. He had splashed his face with water but far too long ago for it still to be having an effect on his lips like that.

John had been kissing then, which would explain why his lips looked so raw and wet.

And, no longer hindered by nerves or being the one expected to make the first move, John moved with ease on the dance floor. Hands were roaming freely, hips thrusting-

Fuck.

Turning to the bar Sherlock placed his hands squarely on the top.

"Crashing?" Victor asked, moving behind him.

No, but he needed more. He needed to think and he could already feel that the height of his high had passed.

His phone went off.

_Am at Back Door club. Just in case you're here with turd face_

John.

A small, strange wave of fondness blurred with his high and left Sherlock almost unable to see for a moment. Turning he looked, expecting to see John on the dance floor still and then frowning when he couldn't see…

Bloody idiot!

Trying not to smile at the image of John, hiding under a table (silly boy), he texted back.

_I noticed. The floor is filthy. Get up. SH_

Victor made an aggrieved noise behind him. "Come on," he coaxed, hands slipping around to Sherlock's stomach. "Got something for you."

"Here," Victor showed him what he had in his pocket. "You ever done this before?"

"No."

"Then you should-"

"No." Sherlock pushed Victor back against the wall of the cubicle. Keeping an eye on him he sucked his thumb carefully then dipped it into Victor's pocket to soak up the traces there.

Then sucked his thumb again and smiled, slipping twenty in Victor's pocket.

The sight that greeted him on his way back onto the dance floor made him almost sure he was finally experiencing tachycardia.

John, half undressed, surrounded by hungry men, dancing as if he had been specifically built to torture Sherlock's cock.

Then John's head was tipped back and in the flashing light Sherlock could see the kiss. The hands. The skin. The movement.

He couldn't do it.

And that knowledge was almost crippling because he knew what the alternative was, knew the path this was going to lead them down.

He knew exactly how it was going to end.

But he had absolutely no fucking choice anymore-

John's movement suddenly made him snap away from his terrified rambling train of thought. He was tense, his hands wary and the muscles in his neck rigid against the hand Sherlock hadn't noticed earlier.

The hand that was keeping his head tilted back to the kiss.

This he could deal with.

Sherlock had met "Gay Alf" a handful of times; he had a lovely collection of marijuana plants growing in his shed and sold them for a very reasonable price.

Most of the time.

It wasn't hard at all to pull him backwards, away from John (harder not to pull him backwards and replace Gay Alf with himself) and swing him off into another part of the dance floor in a far less exuberant dance.

He didn't bother to look back at John; he was more than capable of taking care of himself when no longer worried about offending anyone.

The boy really was an idiot at times.

"Dance with me, stay very close and do not let him see we're taking," Sherlock instructed in his ear.

"Before you start," Gay Alf started to say, "Kid was gonna try it anyway."

"Was he?" Sherlock asked evenly as they swayed to the music.

"Yeah!" Gay Alf shrugged, "You're lucky I know he's yours. Kid's got a good body."

Sherlock pulled him closer, tightly, "Repeat that?" he snarled dangerously.

"Which bit?"

Sherlock raised an unamused eyebrow.

"He's yours. Everyone knows it. After that business with Four Beats and the thing with Ralph Morento? Joe Williams? The only person that doesn't bloody know it is John!"

There was little point in denying that. "What does he think about it all?"

"Says it's complicated. I swear that boy thinks you're god himself sometimes. Though he's still the only person I've ever heard bitch about you and get away with it! He sounds like your wife half the time!"

Sherlock watched the bodies around them. Complicated was such an easy word for it.

"Then Alfred," Sherlock locked eyed with him, "Just to make it clear: touch him again like that, make him uncomfortable like that in any way again and I will come looking for you."

"Kid can handle himself-"

"Yes. But he's also far too polite to say anything about just feeling uncomfortable. Fortunately I have no such compunctions."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock turned, seeing the sudden worry in Gay Alf's eyes.

John was storming to the exit and Victor was grinning triumphantly.

"I reckon you got bigger fish than me."

"What did you say to him?"

"This is fucking ridiculous," Victor sneered as Sherlock slammed the door behind them, securing them in the stock office underneath the club.

"What did you say to him?"

"The fucking truth! I told him his little crush was pathetic!" Victor took a step forward, "I warn you, I am getting so fucking bored of him interrupting us every five minutes."

Sherlock stepped in close, "We have had this discussion-"

"The one where I can't make any use out of him? You have no idea how profitable med students are to my Uncle. I've done you a huge favour keeping out of it this far."

Sherlock glared and tried to shake away the sudden crawling in his skin.

Shit.

"Need a hit?"

"No." Yes. He needed to keep focused.

"Yes you do," Victor soothed. "You want what I've got in my pocket."

No, not with what he'd already taken. Clenching his hands he straightened his fingers out, trying to get rid of the crawls.

"We are discussing John."

"It's you who wants to keep him out of it. I'd happily bring him in," Victor was somehow pressed up against him. "Imagine it, pinned between us. I know what you like Sherlock; you like watching. You could hold his face and look into those big, wide eyes as I fuck him."

Yes. No. He couldn't think. No. John was his. No-one else should get to see…

"Christ you are crashing. You'd usually have taken me apart three ways to Sunday by now." Victor purred. "Come on, you know you want it, you have done it before, I know you have. You wouldn't have been so quick to say no if you hadn't."

Not now but Christ it was tempting. The mixture, the heady loss, the escape from this fucking problem that had no good or acceptable outcomes.

Because Sherlock was far too selfish to watch John with someone else. And he wasn't exactly sure how much he would give up for John.

Which left John in an utterly shit position.

He was going to hurt him, worse than anyone had hurt John so far. It was like a train crash that he couldn't stop.

But he could fucking stop chasing after it, just for an hour.

Nodding Sherlock ignored Victor's triumphant smile and watched dimly as he pulled out what he'd had in his deep coat pockets.

"Can't believe I've never seen you do this."

"Are you not partaking?" Sherlock managed to ask as Victor rolled his sleeves up.

Victor shook his head. "My Uncle would kill me if I did speedball."

The utter absurdity of that statement almost made Sherlock laugh.

Then it hit him.

And mercifully everything stopped thinking.

"Do you really want me?" John asked, brushed up against him, close and yet untouchable.

"Yes," Sherlock opened his eyes and the room spun, blurred and he stared up at Victor pushing John down onto the table.

_Want to see me fuck him? You can watch?_

John grinned at him. "Teach me," he said as he sat with a pack of cards. "I like my fingers."

Sherlock could see why.

There was a sound like meat hitting meat and the smell of blood.

"I found a heart!" John announced over the corpse he had been assigned, hand covered in blood. "I was starting to think there wasn't one in there."

His chest hurt and the world swum as it ached above his chest when he swallowed.

"What have you taken?"

"More," Sherlock replied to the cold hands.

"Fucking hell! Have you ever heard the word "enough"? Genius my arse!"

Victor on the bed with him. "You ever tried it this way?"

"Yes." Sherlock groaned, tilting his head back as the plunger shot his arse with the mixture of cocaine and water. "Not for years though."

"Fucking awesome," John hissed at him. "You are such a prick!"

There was blood on the sheets again.

No there had never been blood on the sheets.

He could smell it though.

They'd fucked afterwards; there was nothing in the world like orgasming while high. And Victor, for all his faults (they were legion) was actually surprisingly good in bed.

"Do you ever think?" John asked, sitting next to the bed. "I mean just engage brain and common sense before you open that mouth of yours? Or are the neurons in your brain going so quick that you don't bother to examine the solutions you come up with?" John sounded scared. "Fuck!"

They were in the room again. John hands at his trousers.

"No." Not here, not like this. Not for John's first time.

The school library, on the floor after hours with the girl who had introduced him to speed. Fucking into her without any real idea of what he was doing, trying what he could to start his education correctly.

She blurred suddenly, indistinct features become even harder to remember.

"You could give him anything. You're heading for an early death Sherlock; the lifestyle you're leading will kill you and you are going to take him with you."

Mycroft.

Mycroft hadn't been in the library.

John.

The sudden wrongness of the images hit him.

_I'm hallucinating._

It was utterly clear as day and yet he couldn't stop his mind from lurching or his thoughts from tumbling over and over until he became lost again.

The next time anything made sense, the world seemed too quiet again and he was in bed with someone.

Victor?

No. He dismissed that idea even as his mind formed the thought. No, not the right shape or size or smell.

John.

It was John.

Clothed, thank god.

Shifting a bit Sherlock looked down.

John looked a mess. A bruise was forming by his cheekbone, round and with a nasty purple from a point of impact.

Elbow, Sherlock's mind supplied. Someone had cracked John in the cheek with an elbow.

His lip was bloody and torn; a cut from a ring, bruising-

An image of Victor's hand hit Sherlock.

John had been in a fight with Victor.

He was sound asleep now though, curled up against Sherlock and barely moving in an exhausted slumber despite the light that was pouring in through the gap in the curtains.

There was a cushion on the ground by the door that looked well used. John must have been sitting on it at some point which meant Sherlock had invited him into his bed.

John had said yes.

Fast asleep though John was, he was so tangled up in Sherlock that he would wake if Sherlock moved to leave the bed.

He had to make his mind up, once and for all what his decision was. Despite the lack of savoury outcomes.

And, if he was honest with himself, part of him knew he'd already made that choice.


	10. Nothing Changes

Chapter Summary:John returns to the club and is forced to deal with both Victor and Sherlock

* * *

**Nothing Changes**

Sitting and sulking at home with a pillow and bottle of Becks seemed manly enough to get away with.

Not, however, according to Andy.

"I'd have decked the fucker!" Andy sneered as he sipped from his bottle.

John shrugged, watching as Bruce Willis saved the building, "Not really much point," he frowned. "Can't force someone to like you."

Andy snorted, "Yeah John, whatever!"

"Why are you saying it like that?" John asked, dragging his eyes away from the screen.

"Mike!"

"Fuck Off! I want to sleep!" Mike's dulcet tones echoed from his room.

"John reckons Sherlock's not in to him."

There was a pause then the door was yanked open.

"Are you thick?" Mike asked blearily. "Seriously John?"

"You're like his little angel," Andy mocked making kissing noises, "Oh baby John, come here and let me take you off to a far away castle where I can protect you from the big bad world."

"Screw you," John hissed, slamming the bottle down.

"John-" Mike started to say.

"No!" John threw up his hands. "He doesn't want that! Not with me, so fuck off and leave it alone!"

"John I'm being fucking serious," Andy turned to talk to him over the back of the sofa. "Are you honestly telling me you don't think Sherlock is interested?"

"I really don't want to talk-" John frowned as his phone went off. "Christ sakes," he muttered and answered it as Andy and Mike exchanged frustrated looks. "What?" he hissed down the phone.

"John?" There was thumping noise in the background.

"Yeah?"

"It's Alf."

John blinked down at his beer.

"Gay Alf?"

"Yeah…hi!" John scrapped a hand through his hair and stomped off into his room. "What is it?" he asked, barely managing to keep the sheer annoyance with his flatmates out of his voice.

"It's Sherlock," Gay Alf said quickly.

John paused, stared at his bed, then swore and grabbed his keys.

"What the hell happened?" John asked as he met Gay Alf round the corner from the club.

"Could say the same to you! You just vanished."

John flashed the stamp he'd gotten earlier and they walked into the club. "I went home for Christ sake!"

"Mate, you flew out of here like a bat out of hell!" Gay Alf said shaking his head. "What did that prick say to you?"

Hunching his shoulders, John ignored him. "Where are they?"

"Back room," Gay Alf looked worried, "They were having the mother of all fights earlier."

Stopping John whirled on him, "Were? I swear to god if you've pulled me out here just to walk in on them two fucking-"

"Trust me mate. They ain't fucking."

John banged on the door, "Sherlock? You in there?"

Nothing.

Muttering some entirely foul and completely deserved comments under his breath, John rolled his eyes and knelt to study the lock. Sherlock had once tried to teach him how to pick a lock but at the time John had been trying to read up on surgical techniques and hadn't been entirely convinced that Sherlock's idea on how similar lock picking and wielding a scalpel would be of any use.

Maybe it would be an idea to listen next time.

"Sherlock," John called again, thumping on the door. Then, using one of Sherlock's techniques kept up banging on the door, going even so far as to ensure the banging noise was uneven and out of time just to annoy the occupants further.

God Sherlock really could be a dick sometimes!

The door suddenly wrenched open and Victor yanked him inside, tossing John into the room as he locked the door once more.

It took John a second to regain his footing and spot Sherlock.

It took about ten seconds to process what he was seeing.

Sherlock looked bad. Pale, breathing uneven, eyes unfocused and struggling.

"What happened?" John asked taking a step towards him.

"Nothing, he's fine," Victor snarled. "Or he was until you started making all that fucking racket."

"Me?" John whirled on him in disbelief. "What have you given him?" he demanded.

"Nothing he didn't want."

Fucking tosser!

John turned to Sherlock, walking over to kneel-

Victor yanked him back, "Leave him the fuck alone you little shit!" he snarled.

No way.

Twisting, John tried to wriggle out of Victor's grasp but Victor kept his iron grip on his waist and wrist, painfully tight and pulling at the skin.

"Let go!" John hissed.

"You listen to me. You are going to sit like a good little boy and clean up his puke if he chucks. If I need you to do anything you will do it. Otherwise you're gonna sit in the corner. Got it?"

Fuck you!

John rammed his head back into Victor's nose and heard something crack, though from the stars suddenly blurring his vision, he might have cracked his own skull.

Stumbling a little from the force, John shook his head to try and clear it and aimed his feet towards Sherlock who looked as if he was struggling for breath.

He got about four steps before Victor yanked at him again this time pulling him close enough to punch.

John managed to avoid the fist. But Victor had a look in his eyes…

The door.

Gay Alf might still be close enough to hear if John shouted for him.

As if sensing what John was going to try and do Victor pulled at him and they ended up in a flail of movement that had the pair of them stumbling for the door. John's just managed to touch the handle when white hot agony exploded in the side of his face. Stunned he dropped to the floor, hissing at the pain from Victor slamming his bloody pointy elbow right into his cheek.

He was fucking lucky it hadn't broken anything.

Then he was being hauled up again and slammed backwards onto the table, the side digging painfully into his kidneys.

"You piece of shit," Victor spat, blood driping from his nose. "I have put in too much time and effort into him for you to mess it up. So you are gonna stay here, do as I say and make sure he doesn't start seizing."

"Get lost then," John spat up at him, mouth tasting like copper. "I don't need you to watch me like a fucking prison camp officer."

Victor backhanded him viciously and pain erupted in John's mouth. "You'll call someone."

"Yeah, a fucking ambulance if it gets bad."

There was a flicker of hesitation.

"Oh for fuck sakes," John hissed, "I'm not calling the police. I'll get him into more trouble than you!"

Victor suddenly smirked and nodded, "Yeah…" then he laughed, "Yeah, wouldn't want your little crush to get into trouble now would we?" Seemingly suddenly satisfied he patted at John's cheek drawing back. "Good boy."

John smiled in a not at all sweet way, then kneed him in the crotch.

Victor went down like a stone.

Scrambling over to Sherlock, John spat blood before getting close to Sherlock, feeling utterly out of his depth with this.

"What has he-"

The door slammed shut behind Victor.

Shit.

John stared at the wooden panels of the door blankly, suddenly feeling completely alone.

What the hell did he know about drugs?

Hesitantly he reached out to Sherlock, tilting his head up from his chin and trying to look at his pupils.

They were completely blown.

"Sherlock?" he asked, searching his friends face for some indication he'd heard. "Please-" he cut himself off.

_Do not plead with your patients. You are in control. You deal with the situation._

"Ok," John said to himself and forced inhalation, wincing as the breath made his cheek and lip ache. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock seemed to wince and blink.

That was as good a response as any he was likely to get John supposed.

"What have you taken?" he asked in a slow, calm and steady voice.

"More," Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes and seeming pained.

More? What the hell did that mean? More cocaine than usual? Stronger drugs?

"I don't-" John stopped himself and looked around helplessly as if the answer would be in the room. But the room stayed belligerently still.

"Christ!" John whispered to himself.

"Want more," Sherlock whispered.

That cut through John's panic like ice water. Disbelievingly he turned and stared back at Sherlock.

"You tosser," he muttered to himself. "Fucking hell! Have you ever heard the word 'enough'? Genius my arse!" John scrapped a hand through his hair.

Pulse. He should check Sherlock's pulse.

Reaching out John shook his hand out. Steady, he needed to be calm and steady.

He could do this.

Except that Sherlock's heart felt like a small rodents the speed it was going at.

John pulled away. He had no idea if that was normal for cocaine users or not.

What the hell was normal for drug heart-rates?

They should mention that at the lectures!

"I don't know what to do," he confessed to Sherlock's unresponsive form.

"No, not for years though," Sherlock suddenly slurred.

"Not for…?" John sat back a little. "That…hallucinations. Okay. That's mixed signals to the brain…uh…fever. Are you hot?" he asked as he pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead.

He was like a bloody oven.

"I swear I'm not doing this just to see!" John muttered as he started to undo the first few buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "And I swear to God if anyone comes in here and arrests me for looking like I'm perving I am so gonna kill you!" he promised and looked around for something else to cool him down.

The office was bloody useless.

"Fucking awesome," John hissed at the room and then looked back at Sherlock. "You are such a prick!" he added pathetically, "I hope you know that!"

Sherlock's heavy breathing was the only answer he received.

"Come on," John whispered, "Yell at me! Tell me I'm an idiot for training to be a doctor and not knowing this stuff. For knowing you and not knowing this stuff."

Sherlock let out a groan as he tipped his head back.

"Please?" John had no idea who he was asking. "You can't possibly think I can cope with this right? I mean if I call an ambulance will the police get involved? I don't…help me! Please! Come on, do you ever think? I mean just engage brain and common sense before you open that mouth of yours? Or are the neurons in your brain going so quick that you don't bother to examine the solutions you come up with? Why the hell do you think I can do this, help you when you can't?"

Nothing.

"Fuck!" John grabbed at Sherlock's hand. "I need you to tell me what to do! I'll screw it up! You never tell me anything…"

Nothing.

"Come on genius. Even in this state you can tell me," John pleaded.

Nothing.

"Ok…ok…I need to call someone," John muttered to himself. "I am not being one of those thick idiots you see on the news who doesn't call someone until it's too late. That would really be my course over," he added trying to joke, half hoping Sherlock would snort and roll his eyes.

Nothing.

Mycroft!

The wave of inspiration suddenly hit like a ton of bricks.

Apart from the fact he didn't have the man's number.

John's eyes fell upon Sherlock's jean pockets.

"Ok…let's see how you like having your phone nicked!" John said, reaching to pull the phone loose of the fabric. "Disappointing, isn't it!" he added.

Sherlock shook his head suddenly, vehemently as if something crucial depended on it.

Flicking through the contacts list John rolled his eyes and called 'Mortal foe'.

"You are so melodramatic," John muttered at Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" A bleary voice asked as the phone was answered.

"No…it's John…You gave me a lift once? Uh…I made an idiot-"

"What is it?" Mycroft snapped sounding more awake.

John stared at Sherlock. "I don't know what he's taken…I wasn't here and now I can't get him to respond. His heart rate's manic, he's hot, hallucinating-"

"Where are you?"

"Back Door Club," John said. "Underneath, in the storage room."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

Thank you.

John didn't dare take his eyes off Sherlock, fixated on his breathing, his colour, his pulse rate. There was an unending terror that if he did so Sherlock might suddenly just stop.

"John?"

Mycroft.

"I didn't know…I don't know if he needs an ambulance," John confessed. "I'm sorry-"

"You did the right thing," Mycroft soothed as he started to examine Sherlock. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I came back and-"

"No. What happened to you. This," he nodded at Sherlock in John's peripheral vision, "I have seen far too often. You however rarely get into these messes."

"I haven't taken anything," John swallowed, not taking his hand from Sherlock's wrist.

"John."

The tone made him tear his eyes away from Sherlock's face.

"He's fine. The worst has passed. My brother would simply refer to it as a 'bad trip'." Mycroft shook his head, "We need to get him home."

John nodded.

Sherlock was unceremoniously dumped into his bed, eyes fluttering as he tried to fight his way into consciousness.

"It's unlikely that he'll do anything other than sleep now," Mycroft said with all the worldly knowledge of someone who had done this many times before.

John glanced at him as he leaned against the opposite wall, watching Mycroft actually tuck his brother in.

Fucking surreal.

"Should I tell him?" John asked, "That I called you?"

"Do as you see fit." Mycroft sounded tired, even though his suit looked immaculately put together and his hair all in place.

The complete opposite of John.

"You'll stay with him," Mycroft said standing. "To keep an eye on him?"

John nodded. "Sure," he replied staring at Sherlock.

How could someone four years older than him look so bloody young?

Mycroft reached out suddenly, his index finger tapping the edge of John's mouth. Startled John blinked at him, then looked at the finger that was now held in front of his face.

It was bloody.

Surprised, John touched the back of his hand to the corner of his lip and winced as it came away with tacky blood. He'd almost completely forgotten what had happened before he'd been faced with Sherlock.

"Victor Trevor wears a rather heavy ring," Mycroft observed calmly. "Am I to take it he was Sherlock's latest 'friend' tonight?"

"Yeah…he said he'd invested a lot in Sherlock," John added, wiping his hand on his jeans. "I'm surprised you haven't given him a ride home yet."

"It is best not to anger the nephews of prominent drug dealers. I do have a limited reach. For now."

"Prominent…you say that like he's a business man!" John yelped.

Mycroft nodded, "Welcome to London John."

Jesus.

"I hit him," John said after a moment. "Is that likely to be a problem?"

"A petty squabble," Mycroft dismissed, "In many ways John, your lack of importance means you can do far more than I in this matter. Frank Trevor will not concern himself with love triangles."

Frowning at his choice of phrase John shifted uncomfortably. "Not much of a fucking love triangle," he muttered bitterly.

Then he was fixed with the Holmes thoughtful, stripping glare. "Tell him what happened in the room John."

"Why? I walked in, Victor hit me, I hit him. End of."

"John…" Mycroft seemed to weigh up his words calmly. "My brother has successfully hunted down any person in the past year who has caused you distress. Those who know the name of Sherlock Holmes also know that John Watson is utterly off limits in every way shape or form." Mycroft opened the door, "Yet he allowed you to get into a fight with a member of the Trevor family while he was in the same room."

So? John stared blankly, his head starting to throb.

"Do pass on my regards to my brother. And try to keep him out of trouble. I'm up for a promotion and I would prefer not to have to continuously use up favours to keep Sherlock out of lasting misfortune."

The floor was uncomfortable. John had ended up nicking a cushion from the sofa in the other room and propping it between his back and the wall to try and avoid that horrible numb feeling in his lower back.

It really wasn't working that well.

It was about quarter to six when Sherlock finally stirred.

Worried that it might be a drug thing, John crawled over to the bed, shattered, and switched on the side light which caused Sherlock to flinch a little.

He looked so much better than he had three hours ago.

Thank God.

But, still not entirely convinced, John pressed his fingers to Sherlock's throat to feel the pulse beneath his fingers.

Regular.

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled. "You called Mycroft."

So much for choosing whether to tell Sherlock that little fact. "Yeah," John winced at how small his voice sounded. "Well," he cleared his throat, trying to sound a little less like a frightened kid, "I didn't think you'd appreciate being left on the floor all night. It's not comfortable, let me tell you that much!"

Sherlock seemed to force his eyes open, looking at the cushion opposite, "You're managing," he muttered thickly.

"I'm young!" John teased, unable to stop his hand from stroking Sherlock's hair gently. "Go back to sleep."

Sherlock shifted his focus back to John and then instantly frowned."What…" he tried to touch at John's jaw but his hands were so un-co-ordinated they ended up slipping off John's chin. "What happened?" he asked again, sounding a little more awake.

"Um…" John hesitated. "Fight," he said with a small smile. "Ask me about it tomorrow."

Sherlock's eyes slid back to the cushion, then he shifted in the bed. "Here," he said lifting up the covers.

"Uh…I…"

"Get in," Sherlock sounded almost stroppy now. "You're exhausted."

Feeling utterly unsure John shifted and lay down in the space Sherlock had made for him. Sherlock dropped the covers back over them and then moved closer to him, spooning up against him and sliding their fingers together.

Utterly rigid (in every possible way) John turned off the light and then lay, staring into the darkness.

A soft kiss was pressed against his neck. "Sleep John."

Within about five minutes, he did.

It was cosy; the perfect sensation that made you just want to bury back to sleep when you woke up because if you moved it would never ever again be this comfortable.

Delicious.

Made even better by the warm skin under John's lips. Smiling against it, he nuzzled, tasting the soft smoothness of it and trying to work out exactly what body part was under him.

It felt like a shoulder.

The hand that had been stroking his back lifted slightly, keeping John comfortably wedged on the shoulder but now coming up to thread lazy strokes through his hair. Content, John shifted closer, nose smelling the wonderful neck beneath him.

It smelled like Sherlock.

Sherlock…

John opened his eyes to stare at the expanse of skin in front on him, the curve of the jaw above and the tendrils of dark hair that tickled the side of his face.

"You're awake," John murmured against him. "You okay?"

"Mycroft over-reacted," Sherlock said calmly.

Frowning, John shook his head. "Nu-uh. You were really bad-"

John broke off as Sherlock moved them, rolling until he was on top of John, looking down at him.

"Do I look like I'm having a come-down?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John said uncertainly. But you're a very good liar, he wanted to add.

Sherlock braced his elbows on either side of John's head studying him and John watched his mouth firm into a thin frown. "Fucking ring," Sherlock sneered with such venom that John blinked up at him owlishly. "He hit you twice," he added, studying John's face.

God he must look like a mess.

"I hit him twice too," John said after a moment. "I took care of it."

Sherlock rolled away onto his back and stared up at the ceiling endlessly.

Great.

It wasn't as if he'd wanted an apology or anything, or for Sherlock to look even the tiniest bit guilty that he'd been as high as a kite last night and in danger of seizing it had been so bad. But there should surely have been something…

Sitting up John put his head between his knees, trying to will himself to get up and have a shower.

"He left," he heard himself say. "Victor I mean. After…he left." John couldn't work out what exactly it was that he was trying to say to Sherlock, only that he felt the words needed to be said.

Sherlock didn't respond to that even a little bit. It was as if that information came as no surprise to him, as if the words meant nothing.

Just as John had started to accept that Sherlock had sunk into one of his silent moods that Paul always grinned about, Sherlock suddenly shifted.

"Why have you been going to Back Door recently?"

Apparently they were finished with the Victor topic then.

"Trying new things," John said to the duvet, trying to work out if he was just hungover or really, really tired still. "You were the one that pointed out I was bi. I've never really tried the whole gay scene before." Though maybe it was the blows to the head that were making him feel like utter shit.

"And?"

"And what?" John turned to look down at Sherlock who was still staring up at the ceiling. "I had one night where I was smashed off my face and then last night. It's hardly been a great epic saga."

"What did you want to try?"

Embarrassed John shrugged .

"John, answer the bloody question properly."

"Why?" John turned properly suddenly, glaring down at Sherlock. "So I can humiliate myself further? Fine. I wanted to try being with a guy! I've never done anything and I was curious."

And now I want to crawl into the corner and shoot myself! God he was an idiot. Turning away he stared at his still sock encased feet.

"Were you looking for a relationship?"

"No." Maybe. Probably not.

There was a long intake of breath and, though John wanted to turn to see what Sherlock was thinking, he kept staring ahead.

"Are you sure about that?"

John shrugged.

"John!"

"Yes!" John winced, "I don't…I'm tired of everything being so serious. I just…I want some fun. I want to try."

This was so humiliating. Miserable we touched his chin to his knee and winced as his mouth protested at the pressure.

"How's your head?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Fine." Sort of. Pounding like a bitch.

"Good."

Behind him he could feel Sherlock moving until he was sat up behind John. Slowly a hand plucked at the bottom of his t-shirt.

"I offered once," Sherlock murmured against his ear as he started to ease the t-shirt up.

"What-" John stared and turned a little, "Sherlock-" and then lost what the hell he wanted to say.

Sherlock was looking at him intently, utterly focused and waiting.

It was as if air had been stolen from his lungs. Sherlock was offering...

"You want the experience without strings and I am very good at this," Sherlock started holding still. "There seems to be a very logical solution."

This seemed to be a very bad idea!

This was a very good idea!

John blinked at him, mind tumbling in an utter confused mess even as he very slowly nodded.

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he pulled at the t-shirt, slipping it over John's head, then started to push him backwards to lie on the bed.

"Sh-Sherlock," John swallowed, hating how bloody….virginal he probably sounded. "I…" Long fingers skimmed around the waist band of his jeans. "Is this just because you feel grateful?"

Pale eyed furrowed in confusion, "For?"

Okay, that hurt a little. "Helping you last night?"

"I did not need help."

And back to that again.

"Right…I don't want to risk our friendship." John scrambled for a reason as Sherlock pulled at the zip, mind careening back and forth between yes and no, between want and common sense.

"Then don't let anything change," Sherlock replied, as if the answer was as easy as it was obvious. "Up," he ordered tapping at John's hips.

Shit, was this really happening? John blinked a few times, half sure he was about to wake up and it was some mad dream.

John didn't move. "Are you really sure-"

"John!" Sherlock looked up at him…when the bloody hell he'd gotten so close to John's dick he had no idea. "I really am very good at this. Just stop thinking."

There's nothing he's not good at.

Suddenly inexplicably jealous, John nodded, wanting to know Sherlock in a way that Victor had smirkingly boasted about. Lifting his hips he let Sherlock pull down both his jeans and boxers in one move.

Fuck!

Panicking, John covered his face with his elbow, not really sure what to do with himself.

"John," Sherlock seemed amused. "You have had blowjobs before."

Eleven.

"Yeah."

Sherlock gripped him by the hips and straightened him out a little. "Leg," he ordered.

Confused John dropped the elbow off of his face to stare down at Sherlock questioningly.

God that was a good image.

"Uh…" John moved his leg as directed until it was over Sherlock's shoulder, then the other and licked his lips as Sherlock slid his hands under John's arse and up to his hips to hold John and pretty much control everything he did with his hips.

Then Sherlock lowered his mouth.

John let out a strangled cry. He'd forgotten how bloody amazing this felt, lips and tongue and warm, wet heat. He tried to keep himself utterly still, as Anna had once requested and twisted his head against the pillow, trying to keep quiet.

Then Sherlock's wonderful mouth disappeared and Sherlock suddenly leaned up, John's legs still on his shoulders.

John had no idea he could be that bendy.

"I told you she was insipid," Sherlock muttered, frowning.

"Huh?"

"Stop tensing, stop holding back and do not bite your lip. It's shredded as it is!" Sherlock ordered before he slunk back down and resumed his previous actions.

Experimentally, John let his hips snap forward a little when Sherlock did a particularly wicked thing with his mouth and was rewarded with a praising stroke of his hips and pleased noise.

It was impossible not to watch. Awed at the sight, John hesitantly lowered a hand to Sherlock's head and gently, careful to exert no pressure, started to stroke the soft hair.

Sherlock's tongue became torturously mind blowing.

It was probably embarrassingly quick to come, but John arched slightly as he started to spiral in that direction.

He should probably tell Sherlock.

"Close," he whispered, dropping his hand from Sherlock's hair to let him pull away easily.

The tongue just kept going.

Shit!

And then John was caught in a strangely wonderful cycle of almost going over and holding himself back to give Sherlock time to pull away. John tried to wriggle his hips back but Sherlock's grip turned to iron.

Fuck, fuck fuck!

Mentally apologising John turned his head to the side and, not wanting to bite at his already sore lip, shoved a knuckle into his mouth instead.

And tumbled over.

It was amazing! Endless waves that made his toes curl and fingers ache. Sherlock wrung every ounce of pleasure from him, followed every wave with a smaller one until John just collapsed and winced as he straightened out his slightly gnawed knuckle.

A careful hand pulled his knuckle down to examine it and John watched Sherlock's grey eyes frown at him.

"Sorry," John muttered squirming. "I…that was fantastic!"

"Travesty," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Horrified, John froze.

"No," Sherlock wriggled back up to him. "Not you! Your…education in this. This would not have happened had you said yes to me the first time," he added petulantly.

Unsure John watched him, trying to catch some glimmer of an explanation from the man above him. "So it wasn't dreadful?"

God he was such a girl!

Sherlock moved as if to kiss him but then his eyes lowered and lingered on John's bloody lip. Looking a little unsure of himself, Sherlock leaned forward and John felt a gentle touch of lips to his temple as Sherlock shook his head gently.

Weirdly that, more than coming, made him finally relax against Sherlock.

Somehow they had fallen back to sleep again. John only realised this when he started to blink back to life again and could hear voices rumbling over the top of him.

Figuring it was probably just Sherlock yelling at the television again, John twisted to free himself from Sherlock's loose hold in order to have a piss.

Twisted straight into Mycroft's almost amused eyes.

"Shit!" John yelped, yanking up the covers, very aware that he was completely stark bullocks naked and turned to glare at Sherlock who in turn was glaring at Mycroft and not paying John a lick of attention.

_Nothing changes._

_Right._

Flopping back onto the mattress John mentally berated himself. This was what happened when you were half asleep with your friend who had probably still been a little drug addled when he gave the most amazing head ever!

Fuck.

"I believe John would disagree."

"You made him worry with your idiotic concerns."

"I did not call him, he called me."

"As if you weren't stalking me with your little minions."

"You think far too much of yourself if you think I have nothing better to do than send people to follow you all day. What a pleasant experience that would be – wandering around every flea pit in London and watching you dive head first into every bed available-"

"And with that note," John muttered wriggling down the bed and keeping the duvet around him, and not in a sexy way but in a hunched up worm/old pensioner look. "I'm having a shower," he announced and then ducked down to pick up his clothes in the most dignified manner he could muster.

He'd just had a blow job off of Sherlock Holmes.

Leaning against the shower tiles John let out a long breath as the water battered down onto him.


	11. The Four Golden Rules

Chapter Summary: John's flatmates issue four simple rules to John. And, impressively, he only manages to break one. Sort of.

* * *

**Four Golden Rules**

Andy turned to him the second John walked through the door.

"Look about last night-" John began.

"Mike!" Andy yelled, "You got some shit for a fucked up face?"

"What?"

"You! You're gonna be a doctor!" Andy rolled his eyes and shook his head at John as if Mike were some disappointing three year old. "Heal!"

Mike made an annoyed sound and then there was the noise of doors opening and drawers slamming shut. "Why not ask John? Is he back yet?"

"Yeah," Andy smiled at John. "It's his face that's fucked up!"

"Ow," John hissed glaring at Mike. "Seriously Mike, bedside manner ringing a bell?"

Mike hit him across the head and John flinched.

"Were you hit in the head too?" Mike asked suddenly combing gently through John's hair looking for an injury.

"I may have head-butted Victor a little bit," John confessed after a moment.

Andy snorted, "Go John!" he grinned. "So what happened after he left?"

"Nothing really. I called Sherlock's brother-"

"The creepy one?"

There was an image of Mycroft talking quietly, almost gently, to Sherlock that John had accidently stepped in on after going to get some water. "Yeah," he said slightly unsure of himself.

"And you stayed?" Mike asked. "God John, I don't envy you, you must have been scared witless!" he pulled away. "You have a bit of a conker here," he tapped very lightly at the back of John's head. "Was it worth it?"

"The head-butt? Hurt like hell," John shifted, "But I did break his nose so…you know. Swings and roundabouts!"

"Well at least you finally used his sofa!" Paul said, shifting on the edge of the sofa where he'd perched after walking in a few minutes ago to the sight of Mike in doctor mode (or as Andy put it, slightly more anal than usual).

"Yeah," John nodded.

There was a long, long pause.

Then Paul put his tea down, Andy crossed his arms and Mike sat back with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" John huffed. "Oh, come on, do you really think anything happened? With me looking like this?"

Their expressions didn't change.

"You're a fucking idiot Watson," Paul sighed.

"Idiot?" Andy turned to look at Paul. "It's a flaming miracle! No more endless uncomfortable conversations of piss poor eye sex flirting!"

"We don't do that-" John started to protest.

"You are in over your head-"

"God, it's sex! Chill out over it you prude!"

"Prude? You know what that word means?"

"Yeah, you!"

John looked at Mike as Andy and Paul started. "It's like watching the bloody Angel and Devil on my shoulder," he muttered as Mike started putting the first aid stuff away again.

Mike nodded.

"And you have nothing to add to this?" John asked warily.

Mike shrugged. "Wear a condom?"

John snorted, then winced.

"Right," Andy announced almost jumping onto John's bed. "I have rules."

"Rules?" John asked doubtfully.

"Yep. Rules to survive friends with benefits." Andy glanced over at Paul, "Combined with Paul's rules for being frigid-"

"Andy I swear-"

"So, number one," Andy waved at Paul dismissively. "You ready?"

John put the book down. "I'm braced for your wisdom," he said sarcastically.

"One." Andy took a deep breath, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm. "Don't go on individual dates."

"Which includes," Paul added, "No buying drinks for each other or meals for each other. No presents and no candles. Especially no candles."

_**October 2nd**_

_Sherlock had him against the wall, kissing him frantically despite the fact it was freezing out and John's back felt like an ice-cube._

_Shivering John pulled away, "Uh…wanna swap positions?"_

_"The wall's cold," Sherlock shook his head._

_"I'm aware of that!" John muttered pointedly._

_Rolling his eyes Sherlock stepped back and made an impatient "get on with it" gesture._

_Grinning John stepped forward and up to Sherlock's lips again. "Why haven't we been doing this all week again?" he asked in between kisses._

_"You," Sherlock nipped at his now healed lip, "were injured."_

_John's stomach rumbled loudly in answer._

_"Come on," Sherlock pulled back from him._

_They wound their way through the streets and John, vaguely bemused at Sherlock's route home, let himself be dragged along._

_Until it became obvious they were going to a restaurant._

_"Uh…I have cold pizza at home," John stopped suddenly._

_Sherlock stopped, turned and looked at him seemingly utterly baffled, "What relevance does that have to this?" he asked, "It's a Spanish restaurant."_

_John assumed that line of thought made sense in Sherlock's head. "Yeah…uh…I haven't got enough money on me so I'll find a cash point."_

_"It's fine. The owner owes me a favour."_

_Did that count as having your meal paid for?_

_"Ok…should I see if anyone else fancies Spanish food?" John started to pat into his pockets._

_Sherlock was looking at him as if he'd gone mad. "Why?"_

_Because we can't go on a date. It's in the rules!_

_"Uh…why don't we just um…go there," John pointed._

_Sherlock turned slowly in the direction of the MacDonald's and stared._

_There was no way MacDonald's could be a proper date…right? But Sherlock was staring at the place as if he'd never seen anything like it before in his life._

_Posh git probably hadn't even been in one._

_"No." Sherlock's voice was utterly firm, as if John had just suggested they play with syphilis. "I am not paying for that."_

_"I'll pay."_

_"You just said you didn't have any money," Sherlock whirled on him. _

_"I said I didn't have enough money. For that place."_

_Sherlock's jaw twitched. "Go have your cold pizza, I have things to do," he snapped suddenly._

_Helplessly John watched him turn to storm off._

_"It's the rules!"_

_Then winced._

_Sherlock turned. "Rules?" he queried._

_"Yeah…for this situation," John said delicately. "To avoid complications. No dates."_

_Sherlock actually seemed to be thinking about that. "And how does Andy….no Paul, define no dates?"_

_John wasn't even gonna bother asking how he knew that. "No paying for each other, no candles…uh…no presents."_

_It was clear Sherlock was mulling that over._

_"And technically no meals just the two of us," John added quickly. "But you say most people are boring so I think we might be able to bend that one."_

_"Fine," Sherlock suddenly said. "Let's find you a cash point machine then."_

_John opened his mouth and then let out an annoyed huff._

_Great, now he was paying for a meal he could have had for free._

_Bloody Paul!_

"Ok, the second rule," Andy said. "Paul's rule," he added with a mocking tone, "Is 'be honest' because he's a bit gay."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, not your kind of gay. The bad kind. The touchy feely kind," Andy dismissed.

"That means being upfront about who else you're seeing," Paul said firmly. "And no game playing. No trying to make him jealous, no testing to see his reactions."

John glanced between them. "You do understand this is Sherlock we're talking about?" he asked. "The guy who tests everyone for information constantly?"

_**4th October**_

_"So," John took a deep drink. "See anyone you like?"_

_Sherlock snapped his head back to John so fast John half expected him to have whiplash. "What?"_

_"You. See any one you like?"_

_Looking pissed off Sherlock settled back in his chair. "Another rule?" he asked disparagingly. _

_John nodded._

_Then smelt danger when Sherlock leaned forward looking suddenly interested. "Which means that goes both ways."_

_"Uh-"_

_"There are at least five people in this room who would be open to you at the moment should you go over. Ten more with some effort on your behalf."_

_What?_

_John gaped at Sherlock, using his best goldfish impression._

_"So," Sherlock leaned very close, "See anyone you like?"_

_You._

_That wouldn't work. And it was breaking a rule._

_Nervously John looked around the bar, avoiding eye contact-_

_"Look at them properly," Sherlock breathed in his ear. "Avoiding eye contact implies you don't want to have any contact with anyone. And you'll never see anyone if you don't look properly."_

_So John did._

_Then shook his head._

_Sherlock nodded. "Amend that rule, whatever it was. Not in front of each other," he said, taking a sip._

_Feeling a little stupid John nodded in agreement._

_"Tell me," Sherlock suddenly said, "Are there any rules about sexual locations?"_

_Sexual what?_

_John shook his head, lost._

_Sherlock smiled._

_Twenty minutes later John was experiencing the full filthy pleasure of giving a hand job in a cubicle._

"Number Three," Andy said, "Is Mike's."

"He told me," John scratched at his cheek. "Always use protection."

_**October 10th**_

_They were in John's bed (Sherlock was on John's bed!) and John had already managed to peel down Sherlock's trousers and rid him of his shirt._

_It was amazing. And Sherlock's skin was so…tasty._

_Apart from the track marks. _

_Lost in the sensation, John nuzzled at the tented fabric of Sherlock's underwear and, after looking up for permission, pulled them down._

_Curious, John studied the dick in front of him, slightly awed at the fact that he was allowed to look and touch and feel. Then he leaned forward and Sherlock moved like a bullet, clenching a hand around John's chin._

_Not at all sure if this wasn't some weird sex thing, John stared at him and waited._

_Shaking his head at something, Sherlock pushed John back by his chin. "Condom you idiot," he hissed._

_"We're not having sex," John said confused._

_Sherlock's eyes widened as if horrified by John's stupidity._

_"Oh," John wriggled and Sherlock let go of his chin. "I know that!" he hissed, "But you didn't use one on me so I figured-"_

_"John you are neither particularly promiscuous nor well acquainted with needles. You're fine."_

_"Right…" John nodded slowly, "Yeah…of course."_

"So is that it?" John asked, utterly unimpressed. "Your three golden rules to friends with benefits?"

Andy hesitated, "There is one more. One that we all agreed on."

"Unlike Mike's rule?" John asked mockingly.

"John," Paul said suddenly sounding deathly serious. "Do not mistake this for more than it is. Do not fool yourself; it's sex and friendship. Nothing more." He took a deep breath, "Do not, under any circumstances, fall in love with Sherlock Holmes."

**October 13th**

Wide eyed John watched Sherlock sit back with the lube in his hands.

"It's not a grenade John," Sherlock said without looking at him.

"I know." Jesus, when had his voice become so squeaky?

They'd been at it for twenty minutes now (how John had lasted so long he had no idea) when Sherlock had reached for his jeans and pulled out the tube.

"So…what are we doing?" John asked fisting the bed sheets nervously.

"Lie back," Sherlock ordered gently (for him). John, swallowing, obeyed, surprised when Sherlock followed him down.

"Look at me," Sherlock said, cupping John's face with one hand as he settled between John's legs.

"Okay."

Sherlock rearranged them slightly so that John's hips were back on the cushion, tilting him up at an angle.

"Relax," Sherlock said softly as his lube soaked hand started to toy with John's balls.

John groaned at the delicious feel and closed his eyes.

"No," Sherlock nuzzled his cheek with his nose. "Keep your eyes open."

Helplessly, John looked up. "Wait, are you watching my face?" he asked, a bit thrown by the idea.

"Do you know what I hate?" Sherlock asked, seemingly ignoring him. "I hate the way you bite your lip and swallow back your moans. I despise the way you turn your head from me, as if enjoying this is something to be embarrassed about."

"Not embarrassed," John gasped. "Just…everyone will hear and no-one looks good when they're coming. Apart from you," he added mutinously.

Sherlock shook his head, "You have honestly no idea. How you look at the moment."

"Dazed? Confused?" John thrust up as Sherlock stroked up, "Pathetically desperate?"

"Debauched." Sherlock leaned back as if observing John from a long shot, the length and lines of him making John bite his-

"No," Sherlock looked frustrated. "Really, who has taught you to do this? It's infuriating!"

John shrugged. "I make bad sex noises!" he hissed.

Rolling his eyes Sherlock settled back down. "I need you to talk to me," he said, thumb stroking John's cheek. "Do not hide anything while we do this."

"Sherlock, I really don't think I'm ready for full-"

"Of course you're not. Don't be an idiot." Sherlock's index fingers were going backwards and John flickered his gaze down as if he could see through their bodies.

"Talk to me," Sherlock whispered.

"Will it feel weird?" John asked still looking down.

"Yes. At first. You'll get used to it."

"Will it hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It shouldn't." he said, circling his finger.

"So I should tell you-"

"You should be telling me everything, you usually manage to ramble on about whatever pops into your head."

"Hey be nice," John huffed. "I let you stay here rent free every ten weeks!"

The finger slipped inside, just the tip.

"John."

"Yeah…uh…it's ok?"

Sherlock's chest rumbled. "You'll never be a great writer John," he sighed.

John grinned up at him and then took a deep breath. "More," he said quietly. "Please."

The finger slid in.

Woah!

"John?"

"Weird," John wriggled and Sherlock glared at him. "What?"

"My fingers are attached!"

John grinned, "Sorry." It was such an insane feeling. Something was inside of him. It felt good and wrong and uncomfortable and…

"Feels strange," John said quietly looking up at Sherlock who was watching him very closely.

Nodding Sherlock leaned forward to place a kiss on John's forehead. "It will do. Relax."

Arching, John let out a long calming sigh.

Sherlock angled his head so that when John opened his eyes again he was staring right into Sherlock's.

"Look at me," Sherlock said, his breath hitching a little.

The finger in him started to move as if searching for something.

"What-" John gasped and jolted as something flicked with warm pleasure. "Oh! That!" he yelped.

Sherlock breathed in his skin by his cheek and stroked with his finger again. John managed to swallow back the whimper.

"You are going to make a noise," Sherlock muttered. "If it kills me, you are going to make a noise."

John pressed his lips together, half of him wanting desperately to give Sherlock what he wanted but the rest of him deeply uncomfortable with the idea.

Then Sherlock's gaze lit up and he slid his fingers down John's cheek, then pressed two against his lips.

"Open for me," he whispered.

Then, somehow, minutes later, he was being fingered, sucked and was sucking. The fingers in his mouth making it almost impossible to clamp down on any noise fully without clamping down on Sherlock's fingers.

And he was not damaging those. Not when they could do the same things that the other ones were doing.

It was an unending cycle of pleasure; shifting his hips forward pushed Sherlock's mouth further onto him and pushing back pushed the fingers in.

Jesus, when he came he was going to die from the sensations!

Sherlock moved, coming up so they were face to face again, taking his fingers out of John's mouth and wrapping those around his cock. With impressive body strength he braced himself over John, kissing him.

John nearly sobbed into his mouth.

"I could come just from looking at you right now," Sherlock murmured into his lips. "Just from watching you fall apart."

John dragged in a long breath; trying not to bite his lip and hearing the ragged breathing fill the room.

"You're close," Sherlock whispered. "Let me see John."

And kissed him.

John cried out into his mouth, a long torturous noise as he came. Breaking apart he threw his head back. "Fuck," he yelped in a wrenched, agonised moan.

"Shit, John you ok?" The door banged open.

Fuck!

Horrified John buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, all too aware of the look Sherlock was probably killing Mike with.

It wouldn't take a fucking genius to work out where Sherlock's hands were.

"The door," Sherlock said in a frosty tone.

The door banged closed almost instantly.

John couldn't help it.

He started to laugh.

Sherlock looked back at him and seemed to relax a little. "You're all right?" he asked seeming a bit confused.

"We are so leaving the door open when I do that to you." John blinked at the ceiling, waiting for his pulse to stop resembling that of mice. "You know…in a day when I can feel my toes again."

Strangely Sherlock still looked lost.

**November 2nd**

"You're tense!"

"Of course I'm fucking tense! I have exams! Being tense is like the requirement needed to get into the fucking hall!" John snapped hoping that at some point the text book would start to make sense.

It had yesterday.

Sherlock huffed, turned the twisty chair and then yanked John over his shoulder in some weird fireman's lift.

John did not shriek like a girl when he was dumped on the bed.

That never happened!

Sherlock was yanking his t-shirt up and rolling him onto his front. John squirmed, "I need to read-"

The book was placed under his chin. "If you insist," Sherlock said as he sat on John's arse.

Then glorious, wonderful hands started to smooth down his back and across his shoulders.

"Oh god!" John moaned.

Sherlock flicked at his back. "I thought you needed to read," he said snottily.

"I'm hiring you," John shoved the book onto the floor. "That's it. Your function in life is to be my private masseur."

"You couldn't afford me," Sherlock muttered sounding amused.

"Could too. I'd keep you in tea for the rest of your life," John bargained, shoving the pillow in the same direction as the text book so he could lie flat.

"Ah." Sherlock leaned forward, hands pressing down wonderfully. "I had forgotten about your legendary hold on tea exports."

"I'm the only one that makes it the way you like it. You're such a lazy shit that my skill is far more important than my ability to provide," John argued, arching into the touch.

Sherlock smiled against his skin as he kissed at John's nape. "That's hardly the way to talk to me when I have you in this position."

"Whatever," John grinned. "Lower back please."

Sherlock's head of curls shook disapprovingly against John's back as his fingers trailed down and slid to John's side.

Shit.

The double attack made John squirm, toes curling as he tried not to shriek.

Sherlock paused.

Oh shit!

"Don't you dare tickle me!" John warned, trying to wriggle free but Sherlock just pinned him down and after a split seconds hesitation, attacked, tickling him mercilessly.

"Fuck off!" John yelped between helpless giggles. "You prick, stop it!"

"Say you'll make tea."

"Sherlock-"

"Say it!"

"Fine! I'll make tea," John laughed and then smiled as Sherlock pressed another kiss to his back, unable to remember the last time he'd felt this carefree.

And utterly unused to the rather surprised expression on Sherlock's face, whatever the hell that was about!

**November 11th**

The covers were pulled off of him. "I'm hungry," Sherlock announced.

"So?" John fumbled for the clock and threw it back down when he saw it was half two in the morning.

"John-"

How did he get into these situations?

"No food," John said into the pillow. "Been writing all day."

A nose started to nuzzle up his leg. Curious, John cracked an eye open to look at Sherlock and then swallowed at the look in his eye.

"I thought you were hungry?" John said turning.

Sherlock nodded, "I am."

"That's so unbelievably corny!" John scrunched the pillow up underneath him and looked down at Sherlock who was slowly making his way up John's body.

"Starving," Sherlock complained, frowning at John's boxers as if they'd personally offended him.

They hadn't seen each other all week; John's choice because if he had to pick between writing up his research and sinking into bed with Sherlock he knew which would win.

Every single time.

Still; he'd sort of figured that Sherlock would just skulk off to another bed when the mood hit rather than come straight over when John submitted his work.

"Up," Sherlock ordered pulling at his underwear. "Now."

Then swallowed John down like a dying man.

Afterwards, when John came, Sherlock crawled up his body, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Mm?" John asked when Sherlock remained silent.

Sherlock gave him a look.

John found his mouth falling open, "I…really?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John grinned and looked at the door, then smiled. "Go on then, pervert."

Sherlock kissed him, passing the come into John's mouth. It was weird, not bad, not anything really.

Hot though. Strangely hot.

Grinning at Sherlock John flipped him over. He'd never get used to the sight of Sherlock, spread underneath him like this. Pulling out a condom from the side drawer he grinned and, in a move he had now perfected, rolled the condom onto Sherlock with his mouth.

The taste of plastic was frustrating. It always seemed to remind John that they weren't…what he wanted them to be.

Though more recently he had found himself needing to be reminded of that.

After tossing the condom away, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's thigh and breathed in his smell, trying to ignore the tiny voice inside him that told him to ask Sherlock if he'd ever be able to try that without the condom.

Sitting up onto the bed John hid his frown by shutting off the bedside light again.

"I want crumpets," Sherlock announced as he settled down next to John. "And fruit. You look like you haven't seen any vitamin C in days. And go to the shop down the road, they have a sale on."

John watched Sherlock make himself comfortable and rolled his eyes. "Yes your majesty," he said, wincing as Sherlock buried his sharp head in John's shoulder. "Anything else?" he asked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock smiled into his shoulder. "I'll think of something."

"I'm sure you will."

**November 13th**

Sherlock yanked the door open and sighed.

"It wouldn't open," John announced, leaning against the frame, the world spinning.

"Yes. You need to turn the door knob."

"I'll turn your door knob," John grinned cheekily. "You have a lovely door knob."

Andy coughed behind him.

"I'm sure yours is very nice too," John offered over his shoulder.

"Get in," Sherlock pulled him forward.

"You smell nice," John nuzzled at him appreciatively. "You smell sexual."

"You smell like cheap vodka."

"I smell like success!" John argued, "I handed everything in, finished my unit and I am still on the course."

"That's hardly a surprise John." Sherlock aimed him towards the bed.

"I want to celebrate!"

"You have celebrated. Plenty." Sherlock put him in the bed.

"No," John sat up and crawled on his knees to the edge so he was chest level with Sherlock and could wrap his arms around his shoulders. "I want to celebrate with you. With my Sherlock."

Under him Sherlock seemed hesitant and just drew back, fumbling John back down to lie properly on the bed. "Sleep," he instructed firmly. "You're drunk."

**November 22nd**

It struck at the oddest moment.

He was in Sherlock's bed, reading the lecture slides for tomorrow as Sherlock tapped away at his laptop, muttering something under his breath about someone called Angelo and cars. They were both half-dressed and John had a lovely view of Sherlock's arse.

"I hate you," John said as he winced at a slide. "You bloody grammar Nazi. It's all I can see now when I look at these."

"You're blaming me for giving you standards?" Sherlock asked tapping away.

"Yeah!" John laughed, "You have standards!"

"I have you in my bed don't I?" Then he pretended to pause and think about it. "Ah, perhaps I see your point."

John grinned and kicked at him playfully with his cold feet. "Git."

Sherlock turned, caught one of his feet and placed a kiss on his ankle before returning his attention back to the laptop.

_I love you_

John froze as the thought popped into his head.

_Oh no. _


	12. The First Time

Chapter Summary:

Who the hell would actually pay Sherlock to look into a murder investigation just because he noticed they were selling spare car parts out of the basement. And why the hell was John being dragged into this?

* * *

**The First Time**

Ok, admitting he was in love with Sherlock was the first step.

Admitting Sherlock was out of his mind bat shit crazy was the next.

Admitting anyone who loved the bat shit craziness needed to go and have a cup of tea seemed like the next order of business.

"Run that one by me again," John said slowly.

"Why is this so hard to understand?" Sherlock hissed. "I am being paid a lot of money to prove he's innocent."

"I get that part!" John sat back, "I don't get why!"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, "I happened to notice they were selling parts in the basement by their socks. Evidently this Marco and his brother feel that I might spot something the police miss." Sherlock twisted John around to face the mess on the floor. "Look John, do you see the problem?" he asked as he slid to the floor.

John saw a map. And pictures. And what looked like a witness statement. "Are you meant to have that?" he asked tapping at the sheet of paper with his foot.

"I'm investigating. I'm meant to have all the evidence."

"Right. Well I see…London and pictures and a piece of paper which is gonna land you in prison."

"That's hardly unlikely-"

"It won't be if they search your flat," John muttered under his breath, shifting on the edge of the bed. "Why are you doing this anyway?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Are you honestly asking me why I'm doing something to show off and prove myself to be better than the professional idiots paid to investigate this?"

"Right, yep, stupid question," John nodded. "Uh…so I'm meant to be seeing something?"

"Yes! John it is staring you in the face!"

John looked down at the crime scene photos of the stabbed man.

"I…the knife's German, not Italian?" John hazarded a random guess.

"Is it?" Sherlock leaned forward intently at the pictures.

Rolling his eyes John flopped back on the bed. "I was joking," he complained to the ceiling.

Sherlock made an irritated noise by his feet then sat up on the bed, wriggling until he lay next to John. "Look," he said, opening the map above them so they were almost covered by it. "The 'X' is where the body was found. 'Y' is where the victim spotted the murder suspect fleeing the scene. 'Z' is where a Porche was broken into, the parts of which I spotted in the basement after-"

"Yes!" John cut across him, well aware of how much Sherlock loved the sound of his own voice. "Right. So what?"

"Oh John," Sherlock said sadly as he shifted closer. "Look at the route. I mean even if he went the predictable route he would still have had to have run all the way there."

"Where?" John asked lost, but Sherlock had rolled away, placing the map on the bed by John's head.

"How can they not see this?" Sherlock complained. "It's elementary at best!"

John shifted to the side. "Maybe they're going by Google maps. Andy's brother reckons they always over estimate so they don't get complaints about people arriving late based on their predictions."

Sherlock looked at him, "People use that?"

"Yes," John sighed, "Us peasants without the London map tattooed to our retinas occasionally have to use Google maps."

Sherlock sat back. "We need to prove it."

"Yes, no, we?" John yelped. "No, no, I have things to do."

"Like? You've finished your unit's work."

John floundered.

"Here," Sherlock announced, gesturing to the section of the wall where the body had been found.

Fuck, it was freezing. "Great, can we go now?" John asked, bouncing on his toes to try and keep warm.

"Soon," Sherlock bent until he was right down on the floor, studying something.

John nodded and watched his backside. "Okay. I can live with that."

Sherlock turned in confusion and then rolled his eyes. "You have a very one track mind at times John," he said with disapproval.

John shrugged.

Standing, Sherlock seemed to ponder something. "You haven't brought a jacket with you," he stated slowly.

"Yes mother, neither did you," John muttered looking around as he blew onto his hands to warm them.

"I knew what we would be doing!"

John nodded then groaned, "Oh Good! What? What are you making me do now?"

"We need to know if Angelo could have made it from 'X' to 'Y' to 'Z' in the time provided."

John looked at Sherlock expectantly, "And how to we find that out?"

Sherlock grinned. "Run!"

By the time John got home he was boiling hot, desperate for a shower and unable to keep the grin off his face.

Adam, Paul's brother who was staying with them for a few weeks while he looked for a job, pressed his lips together in amusement as John came in.

"You look like you've been having fun!" he said stirring the pasta sauce he was making. Apparently you could make the sauce without relying on a jar…or as John was more familiar with, tomato ketchup.

"I've been catering to a maniac!" John laughed, throwing himself on the sofa and groaning as his body started to ache now it was now longer needed.

"What's Sherlock done now?" Mike asked, packing his bag to stay at his girlfriend's for the weekend.

"Had me running around London trying to prove a car thief is only guilty of car theft, not murder," John leaned his head back against the sofa, exhausted. "Kinda fun actually. I think I could halfway get on board with this latest craze, however long it keeps his interest for!"

"And that's your boyfriend?" Adam asked, sounding a little off.

"Oh God, don't even go there!" Mike muttered, "It defies explanation."

John glared at Mike. "We're friends," he said firmly, "Who occasionally share a bed!"

"Really?" Adam asked sounding surprised. "You don't seem the type for that."

Not really sure how to respond to that John shrugged. "It works," he said eventually.

Sort of. As long as John kept his mouth shut about the love thing.

Adam turned to the fridge to do something with the green stuff that rarely ever made its way into their fridge. Flicking through the channels, John jumped when Mike tapped at his shoulder.

"W-" Mike shook his head frantically to cut John off and pointed at Adam's back.

Okay…

"Be careful," Mike whispered.

"With the television?" John asked, genuinely confused.

Mike jabbed a finger in Adam's direction again.

John screwed up his face questioningly. "What?"

Mike shook his head just as Adam turned back and, with a last hopeless stare at John, slung his bag over his shoulder and left.

What?

"Try it and tell me if it's ok?" Adam pleaded as John came back out of his room after finally conceding defeat and getting in the shower.

"I know nothing about food," John replied walking over. "If it's the right colour I'm usually happy!"

Adam grinned and beckoned him all the same, dipping the wooden spoon in the sauce and holding it out to John's lips. "Well I am cooking for Paul so I need someone with similar taste!"

"God, don't lump me in with that category!" John muttered and accepted the spoon in his mouth. "Oh my god that actually tastes like tomato!"

Adam laughed, "It's good then?"

"Amazing!" John said honestly. "You did that all from scratch?" he asked, impressed by the lack of tins.

Adam nodded, "It's really not that hard," he said sheepishly.

"Takes a lot of effort though," John stared at the sauce, trying to figure out what went into it, "You sure Paul's worth it?" he teased.

"Probably not!" Adam admitted smiling, "But I'm bored. Nothing much to do but wait for the phone to ring."

"Well at least you're constructive with it!" John grinned. "I have a friend who would probably shoot things if he had a gun handy when he gets bored."

"Your 'friend' friend?" Adam asked hesitantly.

"Yeah," John glanced up as his phone went, "And speak of the devil!"

"I don't want to!" John complained as they walked up the street. "I did my bit!"

"You ran slowly," Sherlock corrected seeming peeved.

"I was replicating Angelo's gait!" John argued. "Not everyone has mile long legs!"

"Your dedication to the integrity of the experiment is astounding!" Sherlock snapped.

"Hey!" John stopped, "What's your problem? I didn't say I wouldn't, I said I didn't want to!"

Sherlock remained impassive, "You have a house guest," he said coldly, "You haven't mentioned anyone."

"It's Paul's brother! Do you really want me to tell you every time a relative comes to stay with us? I thought that would bore you rotten!"

"Is he gay?"

John threw Sherlock a look, "I don't know, why?"

"How can you not know?"

"I don't make people fill in a survey form when they step through the door!" John complained.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him, eyes boring through into John's brain as if flicking through his thoughts.

"You can be such an idiot," Sherlock suddenly said shaking his head. "And I need you to talk to Angelo; you're far better with soothing people than I am; he may object to being given the option of a long prison sentence or a short prison sentence."

"You want me to soften the blow?" John asked horrified.

"Think of it as practise when you're a surgeon and a patient dies."

"Oh great!" John muttered sarcastically, "Whoopee!"

"That was weird right?" John asked as he unlocked his door. "People aren't usually that happy about being sent to prison for 'just two years'?"

Sherlock seemed just as dazed as John was. The fact that John had ended up being a buffer to Angelo and Marco's sheer relief and gratefulness had stunned the pair of them. "No, I believe that was rather out of the ordinary," he replied.

"John?" Paul called. "You back in?"

"Yeah," John wandered over to the fridge, frowned at the contents and grabbed the box of cold pizza. "Want some?"

Sherlock looked at him with such a disappointed look John could only grin in response.

"Cool!"

Sherlock, when John turned back, was staring at the sofa.

"Where are the sheets?" he asked looking around.

"Andy's gone home for the week cause he's ill. Adam's braving his room." John frowned at the rather dry pizza and grabbed a pot of mayo out the fridge, dipping the pizza in. "You sure you don't want some?" he asked.

Then Sherlock did the strangest thing.

He slunk towards John, until he stood behind him at the counter, John's back pressed to his chest and ducked his lips to John's neck, his hands curling around John's waist possessively.

"I'm offering it to you, you berk! You don't need to butter me up!"

Sherlock bit at his ear. "I want something else," he whispered suggestively.

"Hmm," John teased, "Decisions…do I have pizza or you…" then huffed a laugh as Sherlock nipped at him sternly.

Andy's door opened and Adam stepped out. "Oh…I didn't realise you had company," he said lightly, walking into the lounge.

John moved to pull out of Sherlock's grip, but Sherlock's hands refused to budge and he continued to suck at John's ear as if Adam was bloody invisible.

"Yeah, just got back in," John tried to twist to see Sherlock's face to give him a glare but Sherlock was especially adept now at avoiding those. Giving up and accepting that apparently Sherlock wished to spend the night attached to John's neck, John sighed. "Hear anything back from the company?" he asked Adam.

Adam nodded, "Yeah. I've been shortlisted."

Sherlock lifted his head, swept his eyes over Adam, smirked and ducked back down to John's neck.

"That's great," John tried to stamp on Sherlock's foot to point out how rude he was being and how utterly uncomfortable the atmosphere was now. Though why Adam was still out in the room was anyone's guess.

"Uh…can I get to the fridge?" Adam asked eyeing them up with a tight look.

Finishing the crust of the pizza John nodded, and then realised that might be easier said then done if Sherlock was in an especially belligerent mood. Suprisingly though, Sherlock stepped back and tugged him out of the kitchen.

"Cheers," Adam muttered, yanking open the fridge.

"Be nice!" John hissed at Sherlock as they walked towards his room.

Sherlock paused, turned and kissed him. Hard.

And when John started to think again, remembered that there was an audience and pulled back, Sherlock's eyes were open and fixed opposite them.

At Adam.

Sherlock dropped his eyes down to John and raised an eyebrow in polite inquiry.

"In," John hissed at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked shutting the door behind him and leaning against it.

"Making a point," Sherlock stripped off his shirt. "One I intend to make all night!"

"Are you just doing this to wind him up?" John kept his arms stubbornly folded. "What, is he homophobic or something?"

Sherlock looked up at him and stared, stunned. "You honestly have no idea, do you?"

"Why? What's he done?"

Softening for the first time in days, Sherlock stepped towards him. "You…he's gay John."

"Then…what? Were you trying to provide him with free porn?"

Sherlock smiled, "No."

Stepping away from the door finally, John skimmed a hand along Sherlock's chest. "I'm not a toy!" he said firmly, "I'm not there to make a point."

"No," Sherlock murmured as John started to kiss him. "I suppose your not."


	13. The Dinner

Chapter Summary:

Sherlock demands John accompany him to the annual christmas dinner. In early December. Where the waiters ask what type of redwine. John wasn't aware there were subcategories beyond red, white and the pink one!

* * *

**The Dinner**

**11th December**

Sherlock banged his way in through the front door. "Why aren't you dressed?" he demanded.

John looked down at his t-shirt and jeans and then up at Sherlock. "Uh…"

"Get in the shower!" Sherlock hissed, looking as if he was about to carry John off into it.

"Get lost!" John suggested turning up the television, enjoying one of the rare opportunities he now had to watch the bloody TV now that they were overcrowded.

God help them all when Sherlock pissed off the latest flatmate…though he had been round a hell of a lot lately.

"John! I'm studying!" Andy yelled from his room. "Get in the shower now!"

"I hate the lot of you," John muttered, getting up.

When he emerged and wandered into his room, Sherlock was standing with a bag John hadn't spotted before. Without so much as a pause for thought, Sherlock yanked at John's towel, then shut the door.

"What the hell is going on?" John demanded as Sherlock started to plug in a hair dryer and shoved it at him.

"We'll be late." Sherlock turned the dryer on and John jumped at the sudden blast of hot air. "Aim it at your head!" Sherlock suggested snidely.

Seeing no other option than to mindlessly obey, John started to dry his hair, then yelped when Sherlock started to make him step into a pair of boxers.

"I can dress myself!" he hissed at Sherlock.

"Evidently you can't!"

"What the hell are you going on about?"

"Dinner!"

"You know the rules-"

"This is allowed," Sherlock muttered as he then made John step into a pair of trousers. Trousers John didn't own because they looked like the cost more than his entire education.

"Uh-"

"Dry enough," Sherlock declared, tossing the hairdryer back onto the floor. "Hands," he demanded and then started to manoeuvre John into a white shirt…a white shirt that felt like it was made of fifty pound notes.

"Sherlock-"

"Stop protesting, you're wasting time."

"Fucking hell this is a suit!" John yelped as he saw the jacket.

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, as if utterly distraught by John's lack of class, then added the jacket to the ensemble and backed off a bit, studying John.

"Take the jacket off," he ordered suddenly rummaging around in the bag.

"Wh…why?"

"John!"

Defeated, John stripped the jacket off and then shook his head emphatically when he saw Sherlock draw out what looked like a waistcoat and a bow tie.

"No," he said firmly.

"Believe me, where we're going you'll want them."

The hall was massive and ancient and John was suddenly very aware of how much he should not touch anything.

It was like stepping over the red rope at a museum.

"You have got to be kidding me," he breathed in terror, looking around. "Sherlock why-"

The words died on his lips.

Sherlock looked stunning. His legs looked like they went on for miles and he, in his usual stubborn fashion, had opted to not go with a bow tie or tie; his collar obstinately open and revealing a hint of that wonderful milky flesh.

"What?" Sherlock asked, seeming slightly exasperated as the waiter moved to take their coats into another room.

"Just…seeing one benefit of this," John grinned.

Sherlock let his eyes travel down John wantonly. "Indeed," he said as he stepped close, then kissed John thoroughly.

"Are we allowed to do that here?" John asked as they broke away.

"Sherlock has always had problems with the word 'allow'," Mycroft said from behind John.

Sherlock, prat that he was, just dipped his head down to John again.

"Tosser," John murmured against his lips.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed before pulling back. "Mycroft, how pleasant to see you," he smiled with such fakeness John almost cringed.

"Let's not loiter," Mycroft turned. "Mummy's dying to see what you've brought this year."

"Mummy?" John questioned Sherlock as they started to walk.

"Our mother," Mycroft answered. "Really John, as a doctor in training you should know what the word means."

John stared up at Sherlock in horror. "Tell me this isn't your family," he hissed.

"Believe me if I was adopted I would have found evidence years ago and taken action," Sherlock said very loudly.

"No, I meant tell me this isn't me meeting your family."

"You dislike me lying to you," Sherlock replied airily.

"I hate you," John hissed at him. "I am going to kill you painfully and slowly."

"In that case; try to do it before we have dinner," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock!" A tall, elegant woman with hair in an intricate bun-thing that must have taken a shit load of patience walked over. "Look at you."

"Mother," Sherlock said tightly. "You look…well."

"Yes and you look as if you're not high," she replied in such a sweet tone it took John a moment or two to register what she'd just said. Stunned, he looked at Mycroft whoappeared to be a little bored with the proceedings. "And this must be the new one," Mrs Holmes said, an edge to her voice.

"Friend," John corrected automatically.

"Really? Is that what we're calling it these days?" Sherlock's mother studied him as if he were a new rodent in the garden.

"Mother," Mycroft interrupted the look swiftly. "This is John Watson."

She blinked at him, as if the rodent had just stood up and started spouting Shakespeare. "Oh! Well…I'm Violet Holmes," she smiled at him and then looked back at her youngest son with a scathing glare. "You might have told me," she muttered.

"I wasn't aware father was coming," Sherlock was frowning.

"Don't start," she said softly. "John," she smiled, her face suddenly lighting up. "Mycroft has been telling me all about you. So you want to be a doctor, in the army, how exciting." She linked her arm through his, "Tell me all about your studies."

"I…" John looked at Sherlock for help but the man was glaring at an elderly gentleman that was walking over to him. "Should we-"

"No leave them to it," Violet said sounding a little strained. "I must confess John, I have no idea why Sherlock brought you here."

Unsure of how to take that John looked at her.

"We have a complicated family. I would have thought he'd have wanted to keep you as far away from that as possible."

To John's horror he was sat between Mycroft and Sherlock.

"What have I done to you?" he hissed at Sherlock.

"We'll get it over with; she'll stop nagging at me to meet you. End of," Sherlock muttered. "In the long run this is the easiest scenario for us all."

John pinched the bridge of his nose to keep himself calm.

"Sir? Wine?"

John looked up at the waiter and tried to picture the look he would receive if he just asked for a Carling.

"Sure," he nodded.

"Red or white sir?"

"Red."

"The Merlot? Pinot Noir? Shiraz? We have a lovely Syrah."

What the fuck?

Slowly John looked at Mycroft who was sipping at something that looked like red wine.

"Uh…I…" he looked back at Sherlock.

"Shiraz," Violet interjected suddenly. "I tried some earlier John, you really must experience it. It's lovely and fruity."

The waiter nodded and retrieved a bottle from the tray.

"Thank you," John mouthed at Violet who just smiled at him where she was sat opposite.

"Sir?"

"A triple of your most expensive whiskey," Sherlock replied sitting back sullenly.

Mycroft glared at the ceiling.

Sherlock seemed to be sulking fiercely and while John would usually kick at him under the table until he talked, he had a feeling that might be frowned on here.

Just a little bit.

When the army of waiters put down their food, almost as one, John stared at the plate. Lost.

"What the hell is this?" he hissed at Sherlock.

"Foie gras." Sherlock stabbed at it looking unimpressed.

John looked down and then at the silverware next to his plate. Hand hovering he tried to see what other people were using to eat their starter.

"It's like pate right?" John asked, staring at the stuff that had been sculpted into an elegant shape.

Next to him Mycroft winced.

Sherlock plucked a knife from John's pile and pushed it at him. "Use this," he instructed.

Trying to copy what everyone else was doing John took his first bite.

It was horrendous.

_God, please, no more!_

Next to him Sherlock snorted, a hint of a smile tugging at his face finally.

"It's gross," John whispered to him. "Oh god, is it gonna look bad if I don't eat it?"

The smile was threatening as Sherlock turned a little to him. "Not to your taste?" he enquired politely.

Miserable, John tried again and this time shuddered; the taste making his eyes water.

Then, mercifully, a knife came from Mycroft's direction and he took half of the pile from John's plate. "There," he said as if nothing had happened. "You're doing very well."

Pleadingly, John looked at Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock took another neat bite.

"Please," John wheedled. "You brought me here!"

Clicking his teeth in annoyance, Sherlock stabbed what was left of the foul stuff and transferred it to his own plate. "You owe me," he murmured into John's ear.

The next course had a shrimp. Complete with feelers and eyes.

John stared at it, half expecting the damn thing to start moving. He hovered his fork around it, lost as to what to do.

Sherlock was cracking away, using the plate provided in a manner that said he'd probably learned to do this properly before he could walk.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock switched their plates quickly and then set to work again.

"Is this punishment for Macdonald's?"

When the main course finally arrived it looked sort of normal.

John studied it carefully, peering over the beef and poking at the potatoes.

There had to be something weird with it, right?

"You have had roast beef before," Sherlock hissed.

"Yeah, slices not a leg!"

"Stop playing with your food!" Sherlock said moodily.

"How wonderfully ironic," Violet muttered into her wine. "I never thought I'd see the day darling."

All of Sherlock's growing good humour vanished and he glared at his food.

John hesitantly loaded up his fork and had a bite.

"Bloody hell!" he blinked, the meat almost melting in his mouth. "This is amazing!"

"It was cooked by a Michelin star chef; there is no need to be stunned," Mycroft muttered.

"Yeah, but he cooked the other stuff as well. This is…I don't think I've ever had anything this good in my mouth." He glanced at Sherlock, "No offense."

There was a slight hitch in the conversation as Sherlock suddenly burst out laughing and John went red.

Mycroft just reached for more wine as opposite him while Violet looked almost enchanted at the sight of Sherlock laughing.

The man, Sherlock's father on the other side of Mycroft, glared.

Oops.

Sherlock cut his beef in half and dumped it on John's plate.

"This is not a carousel," Mycroft muttered.

"You started it," John replied, sticking up for Sherlock.

"He doesn't need to be giving food away," Mycroft said woodenly.

By the time dessert came John was pleasantly buzzed on Shiraz and almost relaxed.

"So are there any repeatable stories you can tell me about my son?" Violet asked as Sherlock wandered off between courses.

"Probably not," John grinned. "Though he did come to my third dissection."

"To support you?" Violet asked, looking a bit taken with the idea.

"No, the lab assistant was ill so he pretended to be the cover and did a passable effort of assisting in pancreatic surgery."

Violet stared at him and then a smile suddenly grew. "My Sherlock, surgery?"

"Well…you know. On a cadaver. But yeah!"

Violet started to giggle. "And he got away with it?"

John nodded, taking the last sip of wine. "Yeah, that was more impressive given half the students knew he was fibbing through his teeth. They thought it was brilliant. He's a bit of a legend in my course now."

Delighted, Violet looked over at Sherlock as he sat down. "A legend?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked warily as he sat, his fingers briefly finding John's.

"Your dissection lesson," Violet smiled, "Evidently you're quite the hit."

Looking a little confused by her reaction Sherlock looked at John. "Yes…well…" It seemed as if Sherlock had no idea how to respond to that. "I'm not sure that's-"

"Please. Every time we get a new lecturer I'm hounded by people wanting an insight from you. You wouldn't believe how much easier it is to please a course tutor when you know their pet peeves!"

"You don't mind the…deductions?" Violet asked.

"No, they're bloody…I mean…uh…brilliant! Just brilliant!" John replied honestly.

Violet smiled and Sherlock looked utterly bewildered.

Dessert was some posh tart with something called crème fresh.

Who the hell knew what that was?

"It's good!" John insisted as Sherlock pushed it away without so much as looking at it.

Stubbornly Sherlock just shook his head.

Slightly drunk John carefully piled his fork daintily with a selection of what was on the plate.

"Please?" he whined holding the fork to Sherlock. "I'll make you tea for a month."

"You do that anyway."

"I'll get the good biscuits."

"No you won't. You steal them from Kenny."

Damn. "Ok…I will…cook."

"Is that meant to be incentive?" Sherlock asked doubtfully.

Fair point.

Turning to Sherlock's ear John whispered, "Ok…tomorrow, when I'm sober, I'll let you fuck me."

Sherlock pulled back a little looking taken aback. John just raised an eyebrow and made a train noise.

"Open the tunnel," he said with a wink.

Slowly, Sherlock opened his mouth and John popped the fork in. "See, good isn't it!" he said happily. "Eat your own, this one's mine," he added.

Sherlock, after staring at the table blankly for a moment, pulled the plate to him and started to eat.

"So, what about your parents John?" Violet seemed to have decided he was the second coming or something now. "What are they like?"

"Uh…fine!" John shrugged, "They're…fine."

"Why is it that young people seem so reluctant to discuss their families?" Violet sounded disappointed.

"I can't imagine," Sherlock stirred his coffee endlessly after dumping enough sugar in to make his teeth rot instantly.

"Really?" her voice had turned frosty. "Tell me dear, what was so terrible about your upbringing?"

She and Sherlock locked gazes for a moment, causing Mycroft to sigh next to John. Their father had vanished at some point.

"Watch your temper mother," Sherlock tapped his spoon on the side. "We wouldn't want a scene now would we," he said scene as if the word was offensive.

John snorted, "Right, your mother's lovely. I can't imagine her chucking a saucepan at your head."

Sherlock snapped his attention to John instantly and Mycroft seemed to pause mid-sip.

"It's an expression." John shifted. "So…bathroom?" Then fled the table.

Shit.

Shit!

Bloody red wine.

John leaned over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

"Idiot," he hissed.

The door opened and Sherlock walked in, closing the door behind him.

Watching him in the mirror John sighed, "So…uh…anyone buy the 'it's an expression' excuse?"

"A saucepan?"

"She missed!" John said quickly. "So…it's not quite as bad as it sounds! And she was a bit drunk at the time. And having a row with Harry."

Sherlock's stare was fathomless.

"It's not a big deal," John insisted. "And she apologised afterwards. When she was sober. And after the divorce"

Sherlock stood behind him, locking eyes with John in the mirror as he pressed a kiss to the back of John's head and wrapped his arms around him. Welcoming the silent comfort, John covered Sherlock's arms with his own.

"So…your father was quiet."

"He disapproves," Sherlock said into his hair.

"Of me?"

"Of me," Sherlock replied. "And I of him. We don't speak. It's better for all concerned."

"Families," John tried to smile. "Who'd have 'em?"

Sherlock nodded a little. "Indeed." Then his hands moved to the buttons on John's trousers.

"Sherlock-" John breathed in warning as the clever hands started to pull the fabric open. "I-"

"Watch," Sherlock instructed as his hand found a way in and John gasped, struggling to keep his eyes on Sherlock.

"Not me," Sherlock scolded softly, "You. Watch you."

"I'm not that interesting!" John teased, arching into Sherlock's hand, his own fumbling behind him to slip into Sherlock's trousers, grinning as he watched Sherlock's eyes flutter a little.

"Yes you are."

The utter certainly in Sherlock's voice made John falter.

"Watch us," Sherlock started to stroke faster.

John nodded and bit back a strangled groan as he started to move his hands again.

Thank god he'd washed his hands after.

"It was lovely to meet you," Violet smiled warmly at him as she shook his hand.

"I…thank you for having me!" John struggled to know what to say. "It's uh…been amazing."

Her grip tightened on him as she looked at him, as if searching for words. "I…I believe I should be thanking you," she said, suddenly sounding very serious.

"For eating?" John tried to joke.

"For the first dinner party in five years where I have had my son sober."

"Nah, he was drinking-" Oh. "Uh…" John looked over at Sherlock who was talking with someone who looked vaguely important. "I don't think I had much to do with it."

"I have never seen him look so happy," Violet insisted. "And I can tell you John that is utterly down to you and your relationship with him."

"Oh…no…we aren't together," John swallowed. "We…we're friends. He doesn't want anything more."

Violet raised an eyebrow. "Then my son," she said carefully, "Is a complete idiot."

Or possibly completely insane given what happened the following day.


	14. Everything Changes

Chapter Summary:

Sherlock walks out on John.

**Warnings** for elements of dub con, the level of which depends on how you wish to interpret the situation. Oh and drinking. And minor character death.

* * *

**Everything Changes**

This was stupid! Really stupid!

Why had he said it?

It wasn't as if he didn't want to do it, it was more that he hadn't meant to make it into a big thing, which it now was. Did Sherlock expect him to go over there straight away? Was he meant to wait?

And this was what it had come to: John Watson, fifteen year old girl apparently!

"You ok?" Paul asked as he packed in the living room, gathering up dirty washing to act as a Christmas present to his mother.

John nodded as he watched, trying to imagine the look on his mother's face if he took his washing home. The look of sheer horror was almost kinda funny. "Thinking," he replied.

"About the big fancy party?" Paul asked with a grin. "Andy said you looked lovely, like a butler in training!"

John tossed a shirt at him, "Tosser!"

Paul just winked and tried to add the shirt into the suitcase. "What was it like?"

"Fancy," John said settling back, "Really fancy. They had weird food. You'd think with all that money they'd pay to have shrimp taken out of the shell."

Paul smiled into his suitcase.

"Can…Can I ask you something? And you're not to make fun of me for being a complete girl about this."

Paul looked up, "Go for it. Our resident twat face isn't here!"

"I…I told Sherlock I'd…You know. Today. And I still want to but what's the…protocol for this?"

Paul stared, "Protocol?" he asked blankly.

"Yeah, you know, do I go to his, do I wait for him, do I bring it up?"

Seemingly speechless Paul closed the suitcase, "John," he seemed to consider his words carefully, "At risk of sounding like an even bigger girl, if you're this unsure about that do you really think you should be doing it?"

"It's sex, not a mortgage!"

"Then why not just go over there right now and do the business?"

John slumped in defeat. "It's hardly as if I've never had sex before. I know it doesn't rock the world and change my life."

"It's different," Paul said softly. "When…when you're in love."

Closing his eyes, John drummed a rhythm on the arm of the sofa, not really sure if he wanted to hear this.

"You're not denying it," Paul pointed out when John made no movement to reply.

"I'm going for a walk," John announced suddenly, "When you off?"

"Tomorrow morning." Paul watched him, "You want company?"

John shook his head.

Somehow he ended up at Sherlock's. Hardly surprising really since all his thoughts seemed to be aimed in his direction anyway.

Sherlock, when he opened the door, looked wrecked; his hair was askew, his clothes were still the ones from last night and his eyes were red, skin flushed.

Screw it. Why did he always over think things?

Leaning forward John kissed him. There was a moment of hesitation from Sherlock, then he responded, closing the door behind John and letting John press him up against it.

As he had wanted to last night, John pulled at his shirt, tugging the buttons open to reveal the flesh beneath. Then pulled Sherlock with him, hands around the taller man's back as he manoeuvred them to Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock seemed to suddenly have found some fascination in stripping John completely naked and, as it worked for John's plan, he let him; arching into the touches and nipping teeth as Sherlock yanked his clothes free. He started to move down John's chest, his aim clear.

"No," John pulled him up so they were face to face again. "I told you. Fuck me."

Sherlock went still. Deathly still.

Confused by his reaction John twisted a little, finding the lube and the condoms Sherlock kept by the bed, his quest made easier when Sherlock pulled back.

"Here," John held the items out to Sherlock, "Or I can you know, prepare me if you like?" They'd sort of done that once and while not John's preference it was still pretty good to have Sherlock watch him.

Sherlock took the condoms and lube as if he'd never seen them before.

"Sherlock?" The silence was unnerving now, "Are you gonna say anything?"

Sherlock stirred. "No," he said so quietly John wasn't at all sure he'd actually spoken.

"Sherlock-"

"No." This time the reply was louder and absolute.

"What-"

But Sherlock was already moving, off the bed in quick short movements and then through the bedroom door, slamming it behind him.

Mere seconds later the flat door slammed shut too.

What the hell had just happened?

It was somewhat humiliating to gather his clothes and get dressed again. Never before had he been tossed out of someone's bed and this felt exactly like John imagined such a thing would, despite the fact it was Sherlock that had left.

Adam and Paul were having an epic fight over something when he walked in the door; they stopped it instantly when he let the door shut loudly behind him.

"John?" Paul turned. "What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it," John breathed heading for his room.

"John-" Adam begun.

"I don't want to fucking talk about it!" John exploded. "Piss off the pair of you."

Then slammed his bedroom door behind him, locking it as loudly as he could.

When John emerged after midnight (having stared fixatedly at his phone longer than was probably considered healthy) Adam was preparing to go to bed.

"Why are you out here?" John asked probably rudely.

"Uh…the others locked up their rooms for Christmas," Adam said looking worried, "Are you-"

"Don't." John held up a hand. "Don't. I'm hungry and pissed off. Not a good combination."

"Want me to make you something?"

"I can manage beans on toast." John opened his cupboards and started busying around.

"Listen…" Adam seemed hesitant, "I've got a job offer in a week's time so I'm staying here for a bit. I'll be in Paul's room once he's left. I just…you know. Thought you should know. I don't know when you're leaving but I'll stay out of your way," he offered sounding nervous.

Whatever.

Sherlock didn't call.

He didn't text.

He didn't come sauntering in as he usually did.

It was like the man had vanished off the face of the earth, despite the three drunk massages John left him, all with varying degrees of anger, self- righteous crap and utterly pathetic desperation.

"When are you going home John?" Adam asked.

That was not a topic John particularly wanted to discuss either.

Gay Alf was still around, lips twitching in disapproval as John, for the first time ever, abandoned his three day a week drinking rule.

If this was what Harry felt when she spent weeks drunk as a skunk then credit to her for holding onto it.

"Here," Adam's voice drifted through the haze. "Drink this."

Not really caring what the hell it was John sat up, head spinning and accepted it.

Coffee. Strong, black, sugarless.

"Sobering me up?" John muttered as he shifted on his sofa…wait, his sofa?

"When did I come home?" he asked confused.

"Alf brought you back. He said you were doing a great impression of a slutty fish!"

John crinkled his nose.

"He was drunk too," Adam sighed. "Apparently it was because you were drinking a lot and dancing a lot."

Rolling his eyes John took another sip of coffee, things blurring strangely.

"John…I don't know what happened between you and Sherlock the other week, but this isn't healthy. Your relationship with him wasn't good for you."

John let out an annoyed sigh and glared over the rim of the mug.

"You aren't one for casual John. Everyone says it."

Everyone could go fuck themselves, John thought bitterly.

"And we know he's a drug addict-"

John closed his eyes, "He's-" and cut himself off. After all what could you say in argument to that? Sherlock was addicted; there was no question of that. He simply seemed to function (irritatingly) which made it bloody hard to argue that he should get off the damned things.

As if sensing an opening, Adam shifted forward on the table where he was sat opposite John. "He doesn't deserve you," he added gently.

Surprised John looked at him as Adam took the coffee mug and put it on the table next to him. "He's mad," Adam added, his voice wonderfully soothing, "To have you and be happy to share."

"I never-"

"But you could have," Adam said in that same tone, "You wouldn't have been doing anything wrong if you had."

He was close. Very close. And so…calming. The complete opposite of Sherlock; a gentle lull to the thunderstorm.

And Adam's brown eyes had tiny flecks of gold in them.

How had he gotten this close? John could feel his breath, feel the warmth from him. It was like a sirens call; offering reassurance and comfort.

If he tilted his head up they would be kissing.

"John," Adam's voice sounded as if he were pleading; pleading for John and it was addictively tempting. To be so focused on, so wanted, especially after the humiliation of last week.

Especially after his mother had refused to let him come home.

All he wanted was to have someone to hold onto to stop everything from sinking.

John tipped his head up and met Adam's lips.

It was slow, careful and gentle. Then it changed, deeper, more forceful and desperate.

"You taste like vodka," Adam teased as he pulled away to start undoing John's shirt with frantic hands.

_You smell like cheap vodka. _

John tried to shake Sherlock's voice away as Adam's quick hands opened his shirt and moved to his belt buckle.

_"I want to celebrate with you."_

_"You're drunk" _

Adam was kissing him again, pulling him forward. Feeling a bit confused John allowed it.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," Adam whispered against his lips.

_Sherlock, waiting, arms around John poised to lift up his shirt._

_"I offered once."_

_Then still waiting. _

"I…" John's words were swallowed up by the next kiss.

"It killed me, seeing you with him," Adam added, hands fumbling.

_Sherlock kissing Victor against the wall with the club music beating away in the background._

_"You shouldn't be here." _

"Seeing him treat you like that," Adam continued.

It was hard to keep track of both the kisses and the hands.

_"What exactly is the nature of your relationship?"_

_"I have never seen him look so happy and I can tell you John that is utterly down to you and your relationship with him."_

_Laughing as Sherlock smirked and travelled down his body. _

"Are you clean?" Adam breathed.

John blinked at him, confused.

_"Condom you idiot," _

"I…" But the words were lost as Adam attacked his neck, desperate kisses that made John's head swim and loose focus.

_"Those who know the name of Sherlock Holmes also know that John Watson is utterly off limits." _

Wait!

_Sherlock standing, grinning evilly. "Making a point, one I intend to make all night!"_

_Sherlock at the poker game._

_Sherlock introducing John to his mother._

_Sherlock jealous._

_Sherlock with less track marks than usual, without love bites that John hadn't made._

_Sherlock cupping his head as they slept and pressing a kiss to his forehead._

_Safe. Exciting. Brilliant. _

John scrambled away from Adam suddenly and stood panting down at a dazed looking friend…not friend…

"What the hell are you doing?" John demanded, scraping at his mouth. "I'm fucking drunk!"

Adam looked as if he were about to move towards John, "You're upset-"

"YES!" John yelled, "Of course I am! Jesus, Sherlock's a total wanker at times but he's never…he would never do this!"

"Don't be dramatic" Adam snapped, "I was trying to comfort you."

John shook his head. "Don't talk to me in the morning," he snarled before slamming into his room.

Shit, he'd forgotten the coffee.

John left it until the afternoon to emerge from his room. By that time it seemed Adam had wisely packed and left to go home given his interview had been…Jesus three days ago.

Tosser!

Still, it took three hours for John's anger to burn away and then he just sat on his bed, feeling lost.

December 24th.

He was going to be completely alone at Christmas.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to pretend he could go home and not be faced by his mother's disgusted rant because Harry had accidently slipped and mentioned Sherlock.

Apparently she was furious both he and Harry would choose to "embarrass her" like that.

_Your father would be ashamed. _

It was utter bollocks, as he had yelled back at her, his father would be ashamed of her, not of John.

Though maybe he wouldn't be so impressed with his only son drinking like alcohol was water and making a mess of everything.

He was not crying about this.

Letting out a determined breath, John stared down at the bag with the clumsily wrapped presents and wondered at his sanity for the fifth time.

Who the hell knew why he had done it. Stupid really to get a tie for Mycroft to say thank you for eating that fucking foul starter and perhaps a bit overly hopeful to buy Violet a nice bottle of Shriaz (according to Gay Alf) as a thank you for the wine incident. And the fake certificate that he and Mike had jokingly made Sherlock for passing the dissection module that loads of his course-mates had signed as the "course leaders".

Seemed a bit more stupid though to not give them after the time and money. Besides, it would be a maid probably; Sherlock's family looked as if they might have maids. Or he could ring the bell and run.

Yeah. That wouldn't look at all bad. Knowing his luck they'd probably think he was a bloody terrorist and call the bomb squad.

Still he might get Christmas dinner out of a priosn sentence so it wouldn't be a complete loss!

Either way he couldn't help lurking at the family house Sherlock had once pointed out to John.

Crap, what if he got the wrong house? The Holmes' didn't seem exactly neighbour friendly…

Why the fuck was he getting so worked up over this? Sherlock's freak out the other day had made it clear. He had realised how close they were getting and had made his feelings on that issue known. If John had ever been tempted to give Sherlock the ultimatum of himself or the drugs he now knew the answer.

Whatever Sherlock felt for John, and he wasn't dumb enough to think Sherlock felt nothing, it wasn't enough for Sherlock to want a relationship.

And they'd been practically in one for months.

In the end he took his chances with the bomb squad and ran after ringing the door bell, feeling like a complete pillock!

The door slammed open just after eleven as John watched some old film on Film Four.

"What the-"

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded, storming in. "What did she do?"

"I…I live here, piss off."

And maybe he'd had five or six beers. It was Christmas.

Sherlock, bastard that he was, switched the light on and walked over to pick up a bottle. The light was like a bloody saw between his eyes.

Wanker!

"You've been drinking."

"Obviously," John took another sip, revelling in the chance to use Sherlock's favourite word.

"You-" Sherlock suddenly darted forward and tilted John's chin up roughly.

Adam was a fucker for hickeys.

The hand holding his chin spasmed in fury.

"I didn't break any rules," John announced pulling his chin away. "I'm 'benefitting' from the arrangement. Not that it still exists. But-"

Sherlock grabbed at him and yanked him up then almost bodily yanked him into the bathroom.

"What is your fucking…no." John hissed as Sherlock started to strip off his shirt, "No, I am so fucking pissed off with people trying to strip me."

That look, that murderous look, crossed Sherlock's face again as he ignored John and left him in just his boxers. Then Sherlock hauled him into the bath and turned the shower on, aiming the head away from John to test the temperature before aiming it at him.

Startled, John yelped and Sherlock yanked the curtain back, hiding him from view.

"Stay in there until I get back," Sherlock snarled.

Fuck him.

Though the shower actually felt pretty good. Warm.

Fine, but he wasn't doing it because he'd been told to do it. He was doing it because he wanted to.

And like hell was he standing there in soggy boxers.

An indiscriminate amount of time later Sherlock yanked back the curtain and turned off the shower.

John stood with his arms folded against the tiles and his head buried in them.

"Why are you here?" John asked, not moving.

A towel was wrapped around his shoulders, "I asked first."

"Apparently two gays in the family is two too many!" John turned, amused. "She must have done something bloody wrong for us both to turn out so shit! Two is like a pattern…or something like that."

Sherlock didn't say a word but guided John out of the bath and into his room.

"So why are you here?" John asked dully as Sherlock moved about, looking for something.

"Why do you think?"

"Dunno. Didn't get visited by three ghosts tonight did you?" John asked snidely.

"You were meant to be going home on the 15th."

John couldn't help but laugh. "That's the crappiest excuse I have ever heard from you! You know most of London. You know when I'm out."

"My father died."

Dressed and having drunk a gallon of water John sat down opposite Sherlock.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"Heart attack," Sherlock said rather woodenly, "Thus proving its existence I suppose."

"God," John tucked his knees up to his chin. "When?"

"The twelfth."

John nodded and then stared at him, "At the dinner thing?"

"Afterwards," Sherlock almost sounded bored by the whole thing. "I don't think my mother is quite that good an actress."

John stared at him, "Are you okay?"

Seemingly startled by the question Sherlock nodded. "We weren't fond of each other," he said stiffly.

John stomped firmly on the thought that meandered its way into his brain and demanded to know why he hadn't been around then. It was pure selfishness. "You went to the funeral?"

"Mother insisted." There was a slight frown, "She was…fragile," Sherlock settled on the word with an uncomfortable air. "I've never seen her like that."

He was worried, anyone could see it. Fearful for his mother.

And people claimed he was a cold bastard.

"You should be with her," John said softly.

But Sherlock was shaking his head, "I…she cries. A lot. I'm not sure how to fix that."

That broke John's heart a little. "Time," he suggested with a rueful shrug. "And waiting."

Sherlock's grey gaze snapped to his as if John had said a magic word and pulled him off of the previous line of thought. His eyes fell to John's throat again; the hickey not hidden by his wet hair or jumper.

Self-conscious John squirmed. "If you need to stay you can. I can sleep on the couch," he offered, ignoring the fact he hadn't sat on the sofa since the thing with Adam.

"I did not come here to be pacified!" Sherlock snapped suddenly, looking irritated.

Jumping at the sound of his tone, John looked away. "Then leave," he suggested, wrapping an arm around himself.

Sherlock said nothing and so, with a sigh, John stood up and wandered over to the kitchen. Part of him wanted a coffee but the idea of that made him shudder after the other night.

Something touched at his neck and John flinched back, startled. Turning he glared at Sherlock, "Would you make some bloody noise when you-"

"How drunk were you?" Sherlock breathed tightly.

Shaking his head John turned away and pulled out a glass for some more water. "It's fine, do not make it out to be a big deal-"

Glass shattered against the wall.

Stunned John turned back to Sherlock who was staring at the broken shards of the tumbler with irritation.

"What the fuck was that?" John yelled.

"It's fine," Sherlock mocked, "It's fine." He took a step forward, "It's fine that your mother is an abusive parent, it's fine that you have no money or support, it's fine that someone takes advantage, it's fine, it's all fucking FINE!" he ended up screaming at John. "It is not fine!"

"What do you want me to do? Cry and whinge about it?" John yelled back. "It is as it fucking is! My mother's hopeless and I manage. And do not pretend it's just Adam that takes advantage-"

"Adam?" Sherlock looked thunderous. "Of course it was him," he muttered to himself.

"You can't do this!" John shoved past him. "You can't…I can cope with this thing we have as long as you don't do this!"

"Do what?"

"This! Acting jealous, acting as if you want me to meet your family and treating me like…I can't do that! I can't…do you have any idea how fucking cruel you're being?"

"Treat you like what?" Sherlock followed him back into the living room. "John?"

"Just get-"

"John!" Sherlock hissed grabbing at him, "How do I treat you?"

"Like I fucking matter to you!"

Sherlock looked as if he'd been hit by a brick wall. Hot embarrassment welled up and John made a dash for his room only to have long hands grab at him and try to pull him close.

No.

Trying to struggle away proved easier said than done and they ended up toppling over onto the sofa. Last night was still far too raw to be back on there with another person and John started wriggling desperately to get free.

"John," Sherlock sounded as if he were talking to a wild animal, "John calm down-"

Shaking his head John tried to squirm but Sherlock at some point had managed to wrap his arms around John, pinning his elbows to his waist with one arm and cupping his forehead with the other to keep his head steady.

He wasn't getting free.

Exhausted John slumped, biting at his lip to keep what was either a scream of pure frustration or a sob of pure sorrow at bay.

"Why didn't you say?" Sherlock asked quietly as John's breathing evened out.

"Because I told you I could do it and I can. I just…not when you make it so easy to forget."

Sherlock nodded slowly against his hair and traitorous hot tears burned in John's eyes.

Wait.

"Why the fuck are you nodding?" John breathed, voice wobbling.

Sherlock was silent then shifted his grip on John, until a hand came into John's field of vision and Sherlock pulled away a little.

In the hand was a present.

"That's against the rules," John said feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

"I know."

Snorting at Sherlock and perhaps himself (why the hell had he thought Sherlock would stick to the rules he would never know) John sighed and took the present.

"You do know this is exactly what I was talking about?" he said without inflection as he started to open up the paper.

"Not unlike having someone in bed looking at you as if…" Sherlock broke off frowning. "Just open the damned present," he said sounding oddly unsure.

It was a box.

Unimpressed John looked at Sherlock.

"Open it you moron!" Sherlock muttered looking more like his usual self.

Rolling his eyes John opened the box.

Inside was his father's watch.

Stunned John dropped the wrapping paper and pulled the watch out, turning it to check the inscription.

_So you'll never have to ask again! _

A joke between his parents; his father had used the "What's the time?" opener to pick up girls when he'd been younger and it had been how they'd met.

"I can't believe you found it," John breathed, remembering how upset he'd been when he'd discovered the pawn broker had sold it almost instantly. "I…I don't know what to say," he whispered, unable to stop fiddling with the watch to check it was really in his hands.

"We can't keep on like this John," Sherlock said quietly.

Don't say that, don't… but John nodded as he stared at the watch.

"I've changed my mind."

"What?" John blinked at him, frowning at seeing how tense and on edge Sherlock seemed.

"It seems…" Sherlock licked his lips as he seemed to gather some will power, "That being in a relationship with you would be far less distracting than not being in one."

Detangling that John stared at him. "You want to be with me because it's less distracting?" John asked gearing up steam.

"John-"

"No. You fucking stay on the couch. Or go home. Either way I'm going to bed," he announced and then paused, "or break into one of the other rooms as you did bring me the watch."

"And if I told you I loved you?"

John stared at the door.

Oh Christ, he must have drunk enough to start auditory hallucinations…that was surely more likely than Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock bloody Holmes, announcing he loved someone.

"I…what was-"

"Do not make me say it again." Sherlock was staring at the skirting board as if he could burn a hole through it. "It's a process."

"A process?"

Sherlock nodded grimly. "And against my will and judgement," he added sounding slight put out by the whole thing.

John gaped at him, "And how long-"

"You came home drunk and affectionate," Sherlock seemed to think they were talking about something distasteful. "It was irritatingly endearing."

It was slightly galling to know there was no real way of narrowing down which night it had been, there were so many like it. John nodded, "Right…which time wa-"

"It is of little consequence," Sherlock dismissed. "But if you wish to try this then we can."

John stepped forward, "You don't sound exactly happy by the idea."

"It seems impossible to do anything else," Sherlock seemed to be over enunciating his words as if to take his frustration out on the bloody English language. "Not having you in my life is unacceptable, having you as a friend is a lie, and having this arrangement is," the eyes flickered to John's neck again, "painful," he admitted. "I dislike the lack of viable options."

John stepped closer again, "Why did you kick me out?"

"I left."

"Either way Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock actually wriggled in shame. "It's…overly sentimental," he declared.

"Sherlock-"

"I…you…You trust me where you shouldn't. You trust me far more than you should. To have that sort of faith aimed at you is…disconcerting to say the least."

"Sherlock," John pushed.

Looking annoyed that the part truth hadn't worked, Sherlock made a frustrated movement and swallowed. "I hadn't…I have never done that with someone I cared about," Sherlock suddenly seemed to pull at something and looked up. "Someone that matters that much to me," he said pointedly locking eyes with John.

Stunned, and perhaps a little warmed by that, John sat down on the arm of the sofa; somewhat balking at the idea of being in the same spot he'd sat in with Adam to have this conversation with Sherlock.

"Why don't you want a relationship?" John asked slowly.

Sherlock's gaze was dipped at the corner of the sofa, as if he could see into the past. A small frown was creasing his forehead.

"Sherlock-"

"I heard." Dragging his eyes up, Sherlock scanned his face and frowned at John's lips. "What happened last night?"

John clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I asked-"

"I heard you perfectly, however I do not want to be the only one baring my soul. What happened last night?"

"I was out with Gay Alf-"

"Unmolested at that point?"

Ignoring the quip John pressed on. "I came back and Adam was here. He offered to look after me, made me coffee and then bitched about you and stuck his tongue down my throat."

Sherlock waited, then raised an eyebrow when John said nothing. "Do not insult my intelligence," he hissed.

"He…" it was a blur, "he undid my shirt, I told you he tried to undress me."

"How far did he get?"

It was too blurry to remember. "I…honestly don't know. I was really focused on the kissing and my head wouldn't stop spinning."

"You es…you pulled away," Sherlock said. "Why?"

"Huh?"

"Something snapped you out of it." Sherlock stood and made his way to the kitchen. "What was it?"

"I…what are you doing?"

"Answer the question."

"You." John rolled his eyes at having this conversation with Sherlock's back. "I realised that as fucked up as we were you would never have pushed me like that."

Sherlock was studying the mug John had drunk from last night.

"Oh for…I was not drugged you idiot. Just very drunk."

Sherlock did not look convinced but nodded all the same and came back into the lounge.

"So?" John asked when Sherlock stopped close to him, "Why don't you want a relationship?"

"Because one day you'll ask me to stop."

There really didn't need to be any clarification on that.

"Probably," John agreed hesitantly.

"But it appears neither one of us can walk away either." Sherlock sat with a sigh.

John shook his head in agreement.

They sat in silence.

"I do love you," John said suddenly. "I realised…I hadn't said it. And I do."

Sherlock reached for him and pressed their foreheads together. "Are you sure about this?" he asked fiercely.

"Don't think we have much of a choice!" John muttered with a strangled laugh as he closed his eyes. "I can't not be with you."

In answer Sherlock just tipped his lips to John's, gently kissing him.

As he pulled away John grinned.

"What?" Sherlock looked a little surprised at his expression.

"I was just thinking..."

"Yes?"

"It must be love if you ignored the double negative!" John couldn't help it as his grin grew with delight.

Sherlock snorted. "God help me," he muttered.

Going to bed was nervewracking. Never before had John been so aware of where Sherlock was and what he was doing.

Lying next to each other Sherlock stroked a hand up his arm gently in repetitive strokes.

"So we're together?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled against his skin, "Yes John."

"Hmm," John pretended to sound thoughtful. "Wow we move fast!"

Sherlock shifted next to him. "In what universe is three years fast?"

"Well, I mean I met your family, had an expensive Christmas present and we're now spending Christmas together," John teased. "Technically anyway," he yawned glaring at the clock. "Happy Christmas by the way."

Sherlock made a non-committal, disapproving noise into the pillow.

"What time do you want the alarm set for?"

"Go to sleep John."

"Then tell me quickly!"

"Whenever you want to get up!"

"When do you need to be home?"

"Mother is expecting us at one."

"Right-" John dropped the clock. "Us?" he squeeked.

"Mmm, if you wouldn't mind telling her we are together that would be wonderful. The woman has nagged me about it every spare moment that she hasn't been crying."

"I don't want to put her out-"

"It's hardly as if there aren't enough dinner plates. She has a small army of them on display in the rooms."

"Whoa, how many rooms do you have-"

"John. Go to sleep!"

John grinned impishly. "Boyfriends talk in bed," he said petulantly, rolling the word on his tongue to study it.

"Partners do not," Sherlock grumbled.

Partners.

"Like cowboys," John said sleepily.

"As you wish." Sherlock mumbled, pressing a kiss to his hair.


	15. Family Portrait

Chapter Summary: "You can imagine the Christmas Dinners."

* * *

**Family Portrait**

_Hands pressed him into the corner, pulling and scratching at him._

_"No idea how much I want you-"_

John startled awake and lay, staring at the wall as he tried to even out his breathing. It took a while to realise he was alone in the bed.

Sherlock.

Crawling out of the covers John sleepily padded into the lounge, frowning at the sight of Sherlock with the cup again.

"It's Christmas," he whined, "let it go."

"You have no food," Sherlock said, putting the cup to one side, his face an expressionless mask. "At least nothing without fur and the ability to respire."

"I consider that a personal triumph," John grinned.

"We also have no milk," Sherlock added.

Shit!

"Do you have any at yours?"

Sherlock looked suddenly skittish, "My mother may have some."

"You got chucked out of a flat again, didn't you?" John grinned. "I knew it! It's like a pavlovian response now; you get chucked out you feel an odd need to come here and beg the use of my bed."

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered sarcastically, apparently unbothered by the fact all the cupboards were open from his search.

John was within touching distance now and there was an odd shyness creeping up on him.

He was actually dating Sherlock! It was kind of amazing.

"Hi," John grinned patting at Sherlock's arm.

A fond smile grew. "Idiot," Sherlock ducked for a quick kiss. "I'm thirsty and your water is disgustingly filthy."

"No, you just haven't built up any tolerance to it!" John said sadly, pulling away. Seeing the almost resigned look on Sherlock's face John rolled his eyes. "One of the others might have hidden a bottle of pop in his room."

Sherlock was off like a flash.

Ten minutes later the raid was complete and they ended up with a bottle of Fanta and a packet of Pringles.

"You honestly need to learn how to cook," Sherlock huffed as he watched John pretty much demolish the crisps. "It's a wonder you haven't suffered from malnutrition."

"I drink orange juice!" John argued.

"So your specialism won't be nutrition then."

John shook his head. "Couldn't imagine anything more boring," he said, then hesitated, "What about you?"

Sherlock reached out for a crisp. "You mean a job I assume?"

"I guess…I mean, you never seem to have money troubles. Do you have a trust fund?"

"Do you imagine I have access to it?" Sherlock sneered, seeming a little bitter. "My frivolous lifestyle will not be funded by my ancestors, though I imagine they would approve."

"So you…strip?" John asked jokingly.

"Once. Tedious."

John's mouth dropped open and Sherlock snorted in amusement.

"Git," John tossed a crisp at him. "So? What do you do?"

"I…" Sherlock turned the crisp between his fingers. "You've seen me earn money John. Poker is usually my main source of income. It's easier. Confidence tricks, sometimes I find people for other people." He took a bite of the crisp. "Does that shock you?"

"A bit relieved," John admitted, "I wasn't sure…I thought maybe you dealt. Drugs."

Sherlock shook his head. "There are always much bigger fish than you. It's not an easy business to rise in. Unless your Uncle happens to be a recognised big time dealer," he added with what sounded like resentment.

"You mean Victor?"

"Yes." Sherlock finished off the crisp and seemed to be waiting.

"What?"

"You aren't going to ask about my relationship with him?"

John took a swig of Fanta. "You were sleeping together and he gave you drugs," John hesitated as he put the bottle down. "Was it…were you sleeping with him to pay-"

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "I'm not idiotic enough to give him that much power over me."

"So you wanted to. Sleep with him?" John asked fiddling with the bottle top.

"Sex while high is…an experience," Sherlock said after a moment. "It's easier to do it with someone who is also high."

"Would you ever want me to-"

"No," Sherlock said forcefully. "Never."

That was a relief. "How come?" John asked twisting the cap onto the bottle finally.

"I…I'm not sure," Sherlock frowned at that. "You have a lot more invested in keeping yourself clean. You're going to enter a profession where you cannot possibly hope to get away with using."

Nodding at that John dragged the duvet around himself and munched.

The house was just as big looking as it had seemed last night. Pausing, John stared up at it, neatly nestled between the others on the street and very white against the grey sky.

Sherlock stopped and turned, looking at him curiously.

John tried to flash a nervous smile. "It's really, really posh isn't it?"

Turning back to the house Sherlock seemed to study it, as if trying to see it from John's point of view. "Imposing," he declared after a moment. "The inside is not much better."

John scratched at his cheek and looked longingly down the road, thinking of the closed shops they'd passed by. "There aren't like…stag heads of anything are there?"

Sherlock seemed to be off in another planet. "No, far too unfashionable now-a-days."

That didn't help! At all!

Inside was daunting, imposing, just as Sherlock had said. John hunched in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked watching John peer into the bowls that looked so expensive he was sure someone was about to tell him off just for breathing on them.

John shook his head. "Looking," he whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Sherlock asked sounding very loud.

"Because it's very quiet!"

Smirking and sliding his fingers to link with John's Sherlock tugged him into the main hallway and through a door.

"Here," he announced pushing John forward. "You can stop nagging me now."

John stared down at Violet Holmes who still looked very elegant in what he supposed she considered somewhat informal wear. She stared up at him just as blankly then, with a long sigh, bookmarked the page she was reading and put the book to one side.

They were in the lounge. Or did posh people call it a parlour. Shit, he should probably stop saying posh people. Rich people?

"Should I assume he is why you stormed out of here last night in such a temper?" Violet asked silkily, raising a very familiar eyebrow at her son.

"Of course. How else did he deliver the presents?"

Oh god the presents! John felt his entire face heat up with utter horror. "I…sorry about that," he muttered, resisting the urge to kick at the carpet like he was ten.

Violet looked at him steadily, emotions flickering across her face too quick to read. Finally she switched her gaze to Sherlock.

"Would you like a drink John?" she asked, standing up.

"Um…" John looked at Sherlock, hoping for some lead on what kind of drink he was being offered but Sherlock was staring at his mother with wary, narrowed eyes. "I…tea?"

Violet smiled, "Take a seat, or feel free to look around the room. Sherlock."

There was a fleeting squeeze at his wrist and then Sherlock followed his mother out of the room.

Silence.

"Okay," John murmured to himself, looking around. It was a cosy living room he supposed, with plush chairs, a roaring fire and pictures that wouldn't look out of place at a gallery. Bored after half a minute, John wandered over to the old looking bookcase, carved from dark gleaming wood that held old tomes.

What would it be like to grow up here? John could remember the few times he'd visited his grandmother before she'd died. He'd hated it – the constant berating for being messy or for knocking things askew. It had always been a relief when his Dad had grabbed at him and Harry and tossed them outside with him for a game of hide and seek in the garden.

Sometimes, if his Dad could see John or Harry was really upset, he'd drag the game out for ages; looking in the most stupid places just to make them giggle.

Next to the book case, on a little side table was a card. John stared down at it, knowing what it was and feeling reluctant to pry.

It was a funeral card.

Which was better: to have a lost a proper Dad or to never have had one in the first place?

The sound of the door closing gently made John look over and up at Violet who stood quietly by the door.

"I'm sorry for-" John caught himself and frowned, "It's a stupid phrase isn't it? But…I'm sorry you lost him."

Violet was silent as she walked over and picked up the card. "You sound as if you've been through it?" she said gently.

John nodded, "My Dad."

Violet closed her eyes for a moment and then swallowed, "How long ago?"

"Uh…" There had been a time when he could have dated it to the week. "Six years ago." Still could, he thought, wincing at the voice that snarled it was five years, ten and a half months ago.

No-one ever wanted to hear the precise time.

"Dreadful age," Violet murmured, standing the card up on the mantelpiece, "To lose a parent when you're a teenager-"

"I don't suppose there's ever a 'good' age," John said sadly. "It was terrible timing," he added trying to lighten the mood, "but then he always had shocking time keeping skills!"

Violet turned, "You sound very fond of him."

"I am. He was amazing. Best Dad ever!" Then he winced, "Sorry I didn't mean-"

Violet waved a dismissive hand. "I know what you meant," she said gently. "Nor am I under any illusions that my sons would speak half of fondly of Siger as you have of your father."

"They have high expectations," John said, staring at the fragile card. "No-one's perfect, no matter what we like to think."

"Mm," Violet hummed in vague agreement. "I'm at a bit of a loss here John," she tilted her head to the side in a way that was rather reminiscent of Sherlock when he was thinking. "Neither of my sons have ever brought anyone home before."

"Much less at Christmas, right?" John took a deep breath. "I'm sorry; he told me you were expecting me as well."

"Well, I suppose he did shout something about it over his shoulder when he launched himself through the front door like a spitting cat." Violet sighed, "It was all a little…abrupt."

John had a distinct feeling abrupt had been frowned on in this house.

"He's making the tea," Violet shook herself. "I suppose we had best check on him before the process falters into some grand experiment."

John was suddenly hit with the image of a much younger Sherlock, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on some grand experiment with his usual utter focus and grinned at the thought as he followed her.

"He must have been cute," John offered as they walked. "As a kid I mean."

"Sorry?"

"With all the experiments and the hair!" John grinned.

Violet looked taken aback for a moment and then nodded. "I thought so," she smiled, "he was a beautiful child."

"Yeah, figures!" John gave the table with the vase a wide berth, convinced it would fall over just at the sight of him. "Belligerent as hell, I imagine!"

Violet laughed, "You have no idea," she said sounding suddenly fond. "Mycroft used to have to trap him with logic, and then Sherlock would sulk about it for a few days. Depending on how upset he was at being foiled yet again."

John could picture that easily, "Inventive parenting," he said approvingly.

Violet nodded and her smile faded, "Until he learned to walk away," she said sadly, then shock herself, looking almost horrified, "I…I apologise John. This is hardly the time or place for such things."

John shook his head but Violet was already picking up her pace and marching into the kitchen where the makings of a Christmas dinner wafted in the air and the cooker…stove maybe (it was huge) was filled with shining pots and meat was roasting in the oven.

To one side Sherlock was sat on the kitchen counter, next to the kettle that looked as if it had clicked off ages ago, reading a letter.

Violet yanked it out of his hands. "Do not read your brother's mail," she huffed. "And the counter is not for sitting on."

Looking utterly unbothered, Sherlock slid off and wandered to John. "Would you like a tour?" he asked mockingly, "Evidently I have been forgetting my manners."

Violet slammed a cup down on the counter, hard.

Great.

"Uh…" John made a show of looking around. "You don't have any ghosts do you?"

Sherlock looked unimpressed, "Ghosts?"

John nodded, "Or secret passages? I'm always up for a good old secret passage."

"There's the back stairs for servants." Sherlock said after moment's thought.

"Servants?" John yelped.

"Oh yes, did you not see the huge army of them when we came in?"

"No," John backed away slightly panicked, "Oh Christ Almighty," he muttered to himself.

"Stop being cruel to the poor boy," Violet scolded gently.

"That," Sherlock muttered learning forward, "Was for MacDonald's."

"So where's Mycroft?" John asked as Sherlock paraded him around Mycroft's bedroom.

"Working."

John laughed and then stared as Sherlock's face remained impassive, "Seriously?"

"He'll be back for dinner." Sherlock toyed with the drawer that was locked. All of them were locked.

"It's Christmas Day!"

"Mycroft doesn't do holidays." Sherlock took out what looked like a thin strip of metal and started on the lock. "The word simply isn't in his vocabulary. I did ask Mother once if he was born in that suit but she insists I'm being dramatic."

"Are you trying to break into his drawers?"

"Yes."

"Okay." John rocked back on his feet. "Am I your lookout?"

Sherlock turned to him. "No, I think he'd be more confused if he didn't catch me."

John nodded, as if that argument had made perfectly logical sense.

"Come here," Sherlock summoned suddenly.

John walked over, part of him tisking in disapproval that he should make sure this 'coming when summoned' did not become a standard part of their relationship. "Yes?" he asked when he was stood close to where Sherlock was kneeling.

"Sit."

Shrugging, John sat.

"Now," Sherlock seemed to bend and twist until he was sat behind John and scooted them both close to the drawer as he placed the lock pick in John's hand. "Put it in."

Grinning, John obeyed.

"You need to feel what's there through the rod. Tell me how you think the lock is keeping the drawer fastened."

It was hard to work out what the metal was bumping across, his brain unable to translate the shape of the hole. "I'm not sure," John confessed.

"You want to be a surgeon-"

"You tell me what part of the body is as hard as metal! And which part of the body has air pockets for me to wiggle a scalpel around in."

Sherlock huffed against his neck, arms coming around John. "Try," he suggested, "and surely you can think of part of the body which has a hole you need to manoeuvre a rod in."

Pausing, John tried not to snigger. "You need to have a serious word with your doctor if you reckon that's what we do to our patients," he teased.

One of Sherlock's hands was creeping down. "Focus on the lock John," he ordered, even as his wandering hand slid under John's jumper.

"I can't concentrate with you doing that!"

"You might be in danger when you next do this. You might be desperate. It's best to recreate the stress you'll be under when teaching you." Sherlock's hand was now pulling at the buttons on his jeans.

Clumsy hands fumbling.

John pushed back a little. "Don't stop talking to me," he said suddenly, needing Sherlock's voice.

The hand paused and John could feel the tension in Sherlock's chin where it rested on his shoulder. "You need to work out what you need to do John. Move the pick in a pattern, vertical or horizontal – you choose. Tell me what you need to do."

"I need…to push it round…I think!"

Sherlock hummed in approval. "Will it work if you just use what's in your hands?"

John pulled the pick out and studied it, "I…I think I need another one."

Sherlock nodded against his neck. "Here," he dug in his pocket and placed three others on the floor. "Pick."

John hovered his hand over and Sherlock dipped his hand into his boxers. "Warm," Sherlock murmured, "getting warmer, warmer."

John selected one and got a few rewarding strokes. "In it goes," Sherlock breathed.

"Tease," John hissed as he shifted to get a better angle on both Sherlock's hand and the lock. "Now what?"

Sherlock paused and put John back into his jeans, zipping him up with far less care than John liked. Just as his clever fingers twisted the button back, he turned his head. "Brother," he welcomed sarcastically, "How's the office?"

"You have your own carpet to defile Sherlock."

"Yours is far cleaner. It's always more fun to dirty the clean things up."

"I noticed."

Sherlock went utterly rigid, anger in every pore of his body as he and Mycroft stared at each other. Sensing an epic staring competition was about to begin, John wriggled free and stood, eyes darting between the brothers.

"I've missed something haven't I?" John asked, lurking uncomfortably by the desk he had just been trying to break into.

"You could always clean your own carpet," Mycroft said, as if John hadn't spoken, still staring down at Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted, standing in a sudden inexplicable movement. "Why bother? It will never be as pristine as yours," he sneered and then stalked out of the room.

Mycroft let out a long sigh.

"Uh…" John stared down at the lock picks still on the floor and the two still in his hands. "Apparently you're used to finding this," he waved the lock picks in the air to make it clear what he was talking about.

"But not you," Mycroft seemed to be pondering something, then looked in the direction Sherlock had just gone. "You and he…" Mycroft stared as if he could see something through the walls. "I presume he did not bring you here just to masturbate over my carpet."

"Please never say that word again," John begged, staring at said carpet.

"John?"

"We…we're trying it." John shrugged. "A bit. A lot." Wincing at his words, John scrambled to explain, "We…we're together."

Mycroft snapped his gaze to John. "Really?"

"Yeah?"

Mycroft stared at him a moment longer and then nodded, "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it be terribly inconvenient for you if you left so I could get changed?"

"Oh!" John nodded and then shook his head, "Yeah, no…I mean. I'll go. I'll just…" he ducked to pick up the lock picks. "And…see you at dinner!"

He could have sworn he almost saw Mycroft smile as he ran out of the room.

The Dining Room was huge and bloody intimidating. John hovered at the entrance peering in.

Sherlock was staring at a chair, hands slowly stroking the wood, a far-away expression on his face. Smiling sadly at the sight, John turned away and wandered back to the kitchen.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked.

Violet took a deep breath. "Do you know this is the first time in thirty five years I have made Christmas Dinner?" she asked. "We would always go out to family or to an important friend's house…I just couldn't face it this year."

"Smells good," John offered with a smile. "My Dad always said that was half the battle. But then my Mum can burn boiled eggs so he may have been biased!"

Violet shook her head, "It's not the cooking that worries me, I just…I had never thought about it before. Though thank you for the compliment," she added.

"Well…I can carry things." John offered.

Violet shook her head, "You're a guest."

John shrugged, "I'm also mad enough to date Sherlock. I think you can let the rule slip for once!"

Violet flew around, looking stunned. "Dating? But I thought you said-"

"Turns out he's not such an idiot after all!" John winked.

"Oh!" Violet seemed to be trying to absorb that fact. "Oh my! Um…I…I should have used the better silverware," she muttered to herself.

"Mrs Holmes?" John said hesitantly, "Please don't take this the wrong way but I'd really rather pretend that you didn't have better silverware. Mainly because I'm convinced I'll somehow break the ones already out there and they look fancy enough."

She stepped towards him. "You're a very sweet boy," she said with a smile. "And I believe I said you were to call me Violet."

John nodded, "Thank you."

She let out a breath, "New beginnings," she muttered to herself looking around as if preparing to go into battle. "Right then. You can tell Sherlock to make himself useful and get the wine and tell Mycroft to not spend twenty minutes changing; he can carve."

John nodded, "And I can…"

"Deal with Sherlock's temper tantrum when he discovers he can't carve!" Violet suggested with a very familiar wicked look in her eyes.

John nodded, "So I'm supervising the drink making."

Violet nodded, laughing.

Sherlock and Mycroft both looked a little confused at their orders, but obeyed nonetheless, though Sherlock seemed to have a few choice words for John when they wandered down into the cellar.

"You have a cellar?"

"Why are you down here?"

"Helping!"

Sherlock glanced upwards and muttered something under his breath, "Look for a pinot noir," he snapped.

"Ok," John wandered over to what looked like white wine.

There was an irritated noise and a hand grabbed at his elbow and shuffled him about, aiming him at the reds and then pushing him forward.

"I thought it was white!"

When they got back up to the dining room, Sherlock paused in the door and then looked at Mycroft sharply who just looked at the chair Sherlock had stood behind earlier pointedly.

"What?" John asked, still feeling slightly smart in knowing at least four different types of wine now.

"We're using the other side of the table." Sherlock whispered back.

"Because of your father's seat?" John asked as he put the wine down in the holders.

What could only be described as gleeful approval shone in Sherlock's eyes, "You worked that out?"

John nodded, "Yeah, I'm not a complete wombat!"

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his hair, "Indeed."

As he moved away John caught a glimpse of a slightly stunned looking Mycroft.

This could actually be fun!

Dinner started out quiet.

"So, I think I'm meant to ask to see baby pictures!" John announced to Violet.

Sherlock dropped his fork on his plate. "Why?" he demanded, looking a little flustered.

"It's like a dating rule!" John winked at him. "You know how much I like to follow those sorts of rules,"

Sherlock shot him a dubious look.

"I believe they're in the study. I haven't looked at them in years," Violet looked a little distant.

"No-"

"They are in the study," Mycroft interjected smoothly, "I saw the albums the other day when searching for the paper work."

"Do not help!" Sherlock muttered, "You are in them as well!"

Mycroft seemed to hesitate at that, clearly torn.

"Come on! I'm sure you were both very cute!" John laughed.

"Be assured I will exact revenge for this," Sherlock threatened waving his knife like a sword.

"Sherlock, your knife-" Violet sighed.

Sherlock pulled an ugly face.

"Sherlock use your knife properly," Mycroft added.

The expression did not improve.

Staring at the way Sherlock was holding it John glanced between the three of them. "Never wanted to be a pirate did you?"

All three turned to stare at him in amazement.

"What? And Sherlock, the knife is not a sword, no matter how much you might wish it otherwise."

Seemingly bewildered, Sherlock just shifted his grip on his knife and stabbed at his turkey, frowning.

"And um… the red stuff is?"

"Cranberry sauce." Mycroft was settling back and exchanging a look with his mother.

John looked at it for a long moment.

"Isn't that a fancy kind of juice?"

John grinned down at the scrawny kid with manic hair and a fiercely stubborn expression.

"You _were_ cute!" he announced to Sherlock as he sat on his boyfriends/partners bed. "You must have had everyone wrapped around your little finger!"

"No." The answer was frank. "I believe my father considered me to be far too wild."

John looked over at Sherlock who was staring out the window. "I…sorry…" he closed the album. "I may have gone a bit overboard today. Excited."

Sherlock shook his head fractionally, "You made it bearable. Somehow."

Turning, John studied him. Sherlock's face was half illuminated by the street lights as he watched the people below, eyes narrowed and fixed on the world beyond the glass.

"Play a game?"

"Like?" Sherlock sounded rather dismissive of the idea.

"See if you can coach me to deduce your childhood from the pictures?"

Sherlock's head turned to him. Then, nodding, he walked over, settling himself so he was sat by John's head as he opened up the album again and flicked through.

"Here," he said turning the page. "This was taken when I turned eighteen. There's a painting somewhere in the house too."

John shifted his elbows so he could peer down. "Uh…but wouldn't the photographer have put you all in position?"

"You tell me," Sherlock replied, combing a hand through John's hair. "Start with me, you know my expressions. Tell me what you see."

Eighteen year old Sherlock glared out of the photo, every part of him stiff and rebellious. But there was a slight unfocused look about him, the set of his jaw when someone had annoyed him and he wasn't sure how to proceed.

"You…you were angry. You'd had a fight?"

"Your evidence?"

"Your fist is clenched, no…" John looked at it closely noticed the way it wasn't quite clenched and the tiny blur around it that indicated the hand had been in constant motion, then looked at his face. "You were using back then?"

A thumb brushed his neck. "Yes."

John chewed at his lip.

"Stop worrying about how I'll react," Sherlock breathed at his ear. "Just look at it. Properly look at me and tell me what you can deduce."

How? How was he meant to look and see what was starting to bloom in his mind. That Sherlock was standing slightly outside of the group, that he looked like an add on, a fey child mixed up with a politely smiling family.

Except…

"Mycroft was tense."

"What?" Sherlock sounded startled. "No he wasn't."

But John nodded his head, "Look, he's holding onto the chair and his knuckles are practically white!"

Sherlock pulled the picture forward, dissecting with his eyes.

Sitting up John pressed a kiss to his ear. "Were they very strict?"

Sherlock nodded, seeming to refuse to drag his eyes from the photograph, "Everything had a schedule, a time and a place. It's endlessly dull."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock laying his chin on his shoulder and tucking a leg under his own bum so he was at an easier height to look over Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah?" he asked.

"To dress for dinner when people have already seen you all day, to make endless small talk about idiotic topics; it's useless. Petty and useless and they made their lives around it. And then they expected me to do the same." Sherlock suddenly shut the album and John could practically feel the restless energy burning within him.

"Do you know what I was thinking? The other day when I was drunk and pretty much making up shite poetry about you to Gay Alf?"

Sherlock tilted his head, his chest moving in amusement, "Poetry?"

"Ignore that part. Anyway, I was sort of thinking you're like this storm."

Under him Sherlock tensed, as if unsure how to take that.

John guessed perhaps that had been a bit vague.

"Promise not to mock," he argued suddenly shifting his grip to pick up Sherlock's little finger with his own, "Pinky swear?"

"How old are you?"

John wagged their fingers, "Too late," he grinned, "Anyway, I was talking about storms."

"Go on then," Sherlock sighed, "babble away."

Nipping at his neck John smiled. "Well see it's like when you have a hot day, and everything is nice and happy but it's plodding along and no-one feels like doing anything at all. They just laze about and everything is blurred and hot.

"Then the storm comes along. It's wild and messy and everything is chaotic and sped up. It's amazing; like waking up suddenly. It's a bit dangerous and haphazard but it's like you can breathe again," John took in the smell of Sherlock, smiling. "It cuts through the endless days and it stands out, it's an event.

"It's indescribable and amazing and there are these flashes of pure brilliance. It's temperamental and I'll probably never manage to keep up with it but that's part of the fun," John squeezed Sherlock then pulled away. "And it's way more fun to have sex in the rain than on a muggy day!" he added with a grin.

Sherlock remained silent, fingers tracing the album's letters, but he looked calmer, less tense.

Nodding at the sight, John slipped his trainers on, kissed Sherlock's forehead, hunted for his coat, then slipped out the door quietly.

"John?"

"Yeah," he asked pausing as he turned to shut the door behind him.

"Thank you for the present."

John nodded and left, smiling.


	16. From a distance

Chapter Summary: The start of Sherlock and John's relationship as seen by those around them.

Warning: Violence, embarrassing sex situations, slight voyeurism and mentions of alcoholic behaviour and drug addiction.

**From a Distance**

**Harry Watson - 29th December**

Harry Watson was pissed! In all senses of the word. After all, a forty minute train ride was bloody boring and they had beer on the little trolley thing that wheeled in between the seats.

It was meant to be drunk!

John was a flaming idiot. Why the hell he hadn't told her that Mum had refused to have him at hers for Christmas Harry would never know. And, fair point, she didn't exactly have a house or cooking abilities but still, screw ups should stick together and give the old bitch the finger. Right?

Wrong, in John's book. Apparently it was better to play the martyr and be alone on Christmas Day. And Clara (sweet, beautiful Clara) had looked horrified when she'd found out.

So clearly Harry had to go and show John that was not how you did it. You didn't just go out with a pathetic whimper and stiff upper lip. You fought back, screamed back. If Mum didn't want a scene you damn well gave her one! It was how you survived.

Stupid kid!

"John, I swear, pick up your bloody phone!" Harry left the forth message in his inbox as she walked up his street. "Otherwise I'm throwing a brick in your window! I'm not standing out here and freezing my arse off for you!"

The house looked just as shabby as ever, peeled paint and long wild grass that was patched and thick with all kinds of weeds. It looked like a boy's house.

Ick!

Harry banged on the door. "John," she shouted through the letter box. "Twat face? You'd better be in there? Or have you drowned in ice cream and chocolates, crying at the sad films?"

The door was yanked open by a rather flustered and horrified looking John. "Harry?" he blinked at her as if expecting her to fade away like a ghost. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Clara yelled at me for letting you stay here on your own for Christmas," Harry barged in and John looked as if he desperately wanted to say something. "As if I was meant to know!"

"I…" John kept looking at his door as if expecting a bomb to go off. "It's really, really ok. Thank you though for stopping by-"

"Get fucked, I travelled all the way down here." Harry sat herself on the sofa and looked around, "God John, do you know what a hoover is?"

"God Harry, do you know what a phone is?" John mocked.

"Yeah and do you know what an on button is? Or a charger maybe? I've been phoning you for hours!"

John faltered at that and then glared, "Who the hell turns up without calling first to check," His eyes slid back to his room suddenly and then he shook his head, "I am surrounded by the mentally insane," he muttered looking as if he were about to start sulking.

Harry rolled her eyes and wandered over to the kitchen, being careful not to touch anything. The fridge was pretty empty but she'd taught the tall stupid one well when she'd been here last.

Vodka in the freezer. As God intended.

Pouring the liquid into the cap, (those cups were not to be used ever!) Harry toasted at John. "Happy fucking 28th December" she said with a smile and knocked it back. "You want some?"

John was eyeing the vodka with some trepidation. "Can you smell it or something?" he asked shaking his head. "It's like watching a sniffer dog."

"I came all this way to check up on you!" Harry slammed the cap down, "The least you can do is be grateful! I was nice enough to make sure you weren't alone-"

Harry trailed off as a man exited her baby brother's bedroom.

He was tall, dark wild hair and cool eyes that were travelling over her like she was a bloody open book. There was an utterly careless attitude to him as he leaned against the door way, shirt open in a way even Harry could tell was deliberate and trousers slung so low she was amazed they didn't just drop off.

Pretty, she decided, if you liked that sort of thing.

John looked like he was about to melt to the floor. "Sherlock meet my sister, Harry this is my boy- sorry partner!" he threw a look at Sherlock, "Because apparently there is a huge difference in connotation and someone might mistake us for girls," he added, as if rattling off a shopping list.

"Irritating girls," This 'Sherlock' corrected, not taking his eyes off Harry.

John just rolled his eyes. "Okay, so great. We've all met each other and now we can go back in my room!" he said pointedly to Sherlock.

"So you're the person my baby brothers been shagging!" Harry smiled as she poured another drink. "Also known as the reason my mother thinks perfect John isn't quite so perfect anymore!"

The pale eyes narrowed.

"No!" John sounded as if he were scolding a four year old or a stubborn pet. "No! You go back into my room or I am so interfering next time you and Mycroft have a spat!"

Wait, what? John usually scolded her first!

Unhappy she glared. "Mycroft?" Harry mocked, tossing back the drink, "Wow John, threesomes already? So proud!"

John shuddered, "No! That's…no! And stop drinking that vodka. It's not yours!"

Harry lifted the bottle again and poured it, raising an eyebrow at John. "So, when are you going to tell Mum that it was a mistake and I was lying and of course you're not…" She looked at Sherlock for emphasis, "Gay," she said in a mock whisper.

"I'm not," John looked genuinely confused.

"Oh please, you crawled away with your tail between your legs. You'll be back begging at the table for scraps with those puppy dog eyes within a week. Never could stand up properly and disappoint anyone."

"I imagine you'd be a tough act to follow," Sherlock said sliding off the wall and stalking forward.

"Don't-" John stuck out a wary hand at the man.

"What's that meant to mean?" Harry demanded, enjoying the warm buzz as the vodka kicked in.

"He could never hope to disappoint your parents as much as you, so why try?" Sherlock smiled, eyes burning with something.

"Enough!" John hissed.

Harry stared straight back, hand clenched around the bottle as she debated throwing it, but there was a look in Sherlock's eyes that said he'd happily throw something back.

Probably something bigger and heavier.

"You hate scenes," Harry said, not taking her eyes off Sherlock. "You hate drama."

John shrugged. "I just don't go out of my way to find them," he corrected. The rest of the sentence was left unspoken but they could all hear it.

_Unlike you._

Harry watched the TV, the volume so low it was barely worth having it on. Sherlock had stalked out, muttering something about a baker and an anvil (who knew and John seemed to have the attitude of "that's actually pretty sane for him") and had left her and John alone for the day.

They'd battled it out on a Playstation someone had left behind. John was shockingly shit at racing games. He'd excused it on tiredness (probably meant he was shagged out) and had vanished into his room half an hour ago. He'd been snoring when she'd gone into ask if he was aware washing up liquid wasn't a whispered fable but a real thing you could pick up at the shops.

The door opened and closed so she stared resolutely at the screen, stubbornly hugging the crisps to her and taking a swig from her beer bottle.

John's door opened and there was a long silence before the door closed again, dickhead on the wrong side of it.

"He's asleep," she muttered.

"Clearly." The word was dripping with disdain.

"I won't have a problem with waking him up if you're a dick to me," Harry tossed another crisp in her mouth.

"I will."

Good for him she guessed.

"You know it's meant to be the other way round. You're shagging my little brother, I'm meant to tell you that if you break his heart I'll hunt you down and show you a new use for this," she waggled the bottle suggestively.

"How long do you think you need to stay here in order to go home the hero to your new girlfriend?"

How the hell did he know that? Annoyed she turned to him, "Did she call? What did you say?"

Sherlock was wearing a smirk. "You're lying to her. It will never work, though you may be able to drag it out for a few years: half a decade maybe."

Determined not to let him see that he'd hit the mark there, Harry took a sip. "And how long do you predict for you and John?" She snarled, smiling cruelly. "A screw up can always spot another screw up."

It hit right back.

Good.

She was woken by laughter.

John's laughter; the full hearted belly laugh he used to give when their Dad attempted to do the crossword with his bloody awful spelling and attempts to make up stupid words.

"Stop it!" John hissed through his giggles. "You'll fall and break your bloody neck!"

"But it looks interesting!"

There was the sound of someone scrabbling up to stand on the counter and then there was the sound of a long exhale. "That does not look interesting, it looks like toxic death!"

"How is that not interesting?" Sherlock asked with what sounded like utter bafflement.

"Because it's gonna eat up my deposit!"

"Oh John don't be an idiot, that went years ago, Andy's 'hide the used condom' idiocy saw to that!"

Oh god she was never ever staying here again.

There was a sudden yelp and then an almighty crash and the sound of plates smashing that had her sitting up terrified.

John and Sherlock had both, somehow, tumbled and half ended up wedged in the sink.

John started to cackle.

"We may have pulled the counter away from the wall," Sherlock announced twisting to stare at the edge.

John cackled even more. "God, I'm gonna be utterly broke when I leave here!" he said mournfully.

"I could always teach you how to play poker," Sherlock offered suddenly, turning to him.

John grinned up.

And then Harry saw it. Saw Sherlock's eyes suddenly warm and the almost sweet smile that tugged at his lips.

The idiots were in love.

When she got home there was something that made her frown, that she couldn't put her finger on. Years later she realised what it was.

She never made Clara laugh like that.

**Andy Harrison – 2nd January**

God Christmas had fucking sucked arse! Though watching his Great Aunt get his cousin hammered and then watching his Aunt glare for as long as she could keep it up while his Uncle decided that twister was the ultimate game for his seventeen year old drunken son, had been pretty funny.

And everyone in the world knew that no-one, alive or dead, could top his Nan's roast potatoes.

Though someone probably should have worked up the guts to tell her that the cream in the profiteroles was off.

Still, it could be worse. He could be John. Paul had mentioned that John had been at the house until Christmas Eve and had showed no signs of going home. Poor guy. Probably could do with a pint and Andy had some left over beef in his bag that his mum had given him. He could share.

"John?" He called, kicking the door open in what he felt was an appropriately dramatic entrance, "You-"

Oh for fuck's sakes!

John stared at him from between Sherlock's blindingly white knees, Sherlock's cock in his mouth in what was clearly a sixty-nine position.

"So," Andy dumped his bag on the floor, deliberately leaving the front door wide open (serve them right for looking in, the tossers!) "Good Christmas?"

John opened his mouth and the condom covered cock sprung free as he gaped at Andy than gasped and smacked at Sherlock's thigh, "Stop, you arse!"

"It's all right!" Andy looked at his watch, "I reckon it will take me ten minutes to unpack. You can be finished by then right?"

John looked like he'd happily spend the next thirty years of his life working solidly to invent a time machine. "Sure," he said tightly and then squirmed.

"Sherlock!" Andy called as he turned to go upstairs, "Always a pleasure!"

"Andy!" John hissed, "The door!"

Oh, that.

Prude.

His bedroom door was open and a quick check showed he'd been relieved of his Pringles, his condoms and lube.

Thieves!

Rolling his eyes he unpacked.

"You owe me a pack of condoms!"

John, clothed and mouth empty, seemed to be avoiding looking at him straight on. "We didn't steal condoms. I'll give you back the Pringles. Made a hell of a Christmas breakfast," he added with a cheeky grin.

"You fucking better!" It was the rule. If John wanted to pretend it was funny, then it was funny. "So I suppose your fuck buddy is the one I should talk to about the condoms."

"Andy-"

Sherlock tossed a roll at him as he walked back out, looking utterly unconcerned. "Useless anyway," he muttered.

"How are these useless?"

"Oh God, let's not discuss this!" John muttered, burying his face in his hands.

"Easily breakable!" Sherlock opened the most used drawer in the entire kitchen and pulled out the take-way menus.

"So? You pull out and pop down the free clinic for the morning after pill!" Andy turned to John, "PS. You can't get pregnant!" He turned back to Sherlock. "Or you. Not sure which way round you're happiest with."

John made a squeak that sounded like sheer horror.

Sherlock seemed unfazed, damnit! Andy was so loosing that bet about getting him to finally show some embarrassment. It was like the guy had absolutely no threshold. "Clearly living with two doctors hasn't raised your health awareness?" Sherlock muttered.

"If you count them two as Doctors…personally I call them being anal and likes anal!"

A sofa cushion came flying at his head. "Fuck off!" John sounded as if he was torn between laughing and begging.

"So, what we having to eat? I need compensation for seeing your cock! It's rules!" Andy announced.

He'd been the first of them to make Sherlock laugh though. Apart from John. Everything with Sherlock was 'apart from John' most of the time. Still, it was kinda fun to see the mouth twitch in humour.

"Then I believe John should get reparations for seeing your naked arse eight times in the past year."

Curious Andy turned to John and tilted his head questioningly, "Really?"

John flushed, "You don't close your door when you're 'eager to close the deal'. Ever. We all walk by with our hand covering one side of our face."

"And why were you upstairs? You live downstairs!" Andy scolded. "Were you trying to perve on Paul or Adam?"

John faltered and looked at Sherlock as if for help.

Wait! That wasn't meant to happen. Thrown, he looked at Sherlock who was watching John like the sun depended on it.

"So," John's voice was falsely bright. "Indian?"

"Yeah," Andy stared at Sherlock, "Sure." He turned to John, "You go pick it up. My eyes are still wounded."

"He has legs!" John complained, then his gaze slid to Sherlock. "Oh fuck it, why even bother pretending that's gonna happen," he muttered turning into his room to get his shoes. "What do you two bastards want?"

"So Adam hit on him then?" Andy asked as he heard the gate squeak closed.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just stared in that unnerving way that made everyone but John shudder.

"You knew?" Sherlock said sounding far too nonchalant.

"That Adam had a crush? Yeah. Look if you're jealous than that's your tough shit. John did nothing wrong. You ain't together-"

"Aren't," Sherlock muttered in a clipped tone.

"Who gives one? Look the point is, don't take it out on John. If you don't want him like that, you can't complain."

Sherlock looked put out, "I refuse to explain my relationship with John to you of all people."

Fair enough. Andy shrugged, "All I'm saying, and I speak for all of us here, is that if John has a chance to have a proper boyfriend then he should go for it. You're nice…" Andy broke off struggling for the right word…"Interesting enough," he settled on and was almost amused at the flicker of pride in Sherlock's eyes. "But we all know-"

"We are dating," Sherlock hissed staring at the ceiling. "And, the little friend that you seem to insist you stick up for, attempted to fuck John while he was drunk."

That was a fucking huge amount of information to take in at once. Confused, Andy screwed up his face.

"You and John? Properly?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked as if he'd rather be on the rack than submit to this.

"How long?"

"Nine days. Would you like the hours and minutes as well?"

"Who the fuck does that?"

Sherlock stared at him. "How do you function? I can almost hear the gears whirling," he huffed. "And you're the best one out of the lot!" he added derisively.

Well, yeah…duh!

Whoah!

"Adam did what to John?!"

Sherlock looked down at his watch and shook his head as if pained.

"So you and Sherlock? Properly?"

John looked up, naan bread poised to eat. "Yeah?" he sounded as if he were waiting for more.

"Did you fuck in the sink or something?"

John sniggered. "No, my sister was there!"

"Mate, that's so messed up."

John tossed a poppadum at him.

Those little fuckers were sharp!

"Oi."

Sherlock paused at the door and turned with a very sceptical expression on his face, as if he doubted the following conversation would be of any use to him.

"You and John-"

"Must we go through this again? It's dreadfully dull watching you think."

Andy took a step closer. "I know what you did to Joe and Reece."

Sherlock glanced at John's door. "He doesn't. And it will stay that way," he warned.

"I get that. He'd be bloody uncomfortable with it. John hates thinking he needs anyone's help with anything."

Sherlock nodded sharply, eyes suddenly wary.

"So I get you've got most of that covered in ways I can't begin to understand." Andy straightened up to full height, matching Sherlock's glare, "But so help me if he ever comes home with a needle in his arm I will fucking rip you up to kingdom come!"

He expected a clever comeback and one he probably didn't fully understand.

He didn't expect the nod.

"Good," Sherlock said tightly then walked out.

Andy let out a breath.

Fuck he was hungry still!

**Mycroft Holmes 5th - 6th January**

It was a truth universally acknowledged that Sherlock would go out of his way to cause trouble. There had been many days where nearly all of their extended and close family wondered if there hadn't been a mix up at the hospital the day Sherlock was born.

But then the boy would open his mouth and that cold, precise, flicking tone was all their father. The quick, logical, analytical brain their grandfather's gift to them both and the head tilt was so reminiscent of their mothers it was almost strange at times.

Sherlock was definitely a Holmes. He was merely not a traditional one.

In fact Mycroft believed Sherlock would take an inordinate amount of pride in that fact.

Despite Sherlock's attempts to be rebellious and infuriating, his behaviour was all rather alarmingly typical, though perhaps extreme. They had both had a strictly routine upbringing that Mycroft had thrived in. Sherlock, clearly feeling the need to distinguish himself, had fought against it with such devotion it was almost impressive; certainly Mycroft could always remember that seven year old that had stood arguing with their father, an unmovable force in their house. The drugs, the sex, the clubbing and the lack of a notable job were all screaming Sherlock's independent rebellion and, while it had been perhaps almost acceptable when Sherlock was a teenager and an early adult, his brother was now twenty six and it was getting worrying.

Worrying. Not a word Mycroft particularly liked to use; it suggested caring and sleepless nights. It suggested a lack of being able to do anything effective.

The word was distasteful, yet the best one he could use to sum up the situation.

Sherlock was brilliant. Utterly brilliant. Underneath the illicit nature of his life style there was a mind that was like no-other the world had seen. So bright and quick and sharp that Sherlock would tear himself to pieces at night as a child, unable to stop thinking, hypothesising, seeing.

It was being wasted, destroyed by copious uses of cocaine and heroin. Nudged and perverted by men like Victor Trevor.

And yet, despite it all, there was John.

"Um, hi, yeah, I think this is the right number…sorry if it isn't. Your answering message isn't that clear…not that I'm having a go. Right so…uh it's John by the way. I was wondering if you had any ideas. About Sherlock's birthday because it's coming up and I only realised that yesterday because he never talks about it and I want to do something nice for him, I mean great for him, though he'll probably hate it, does he hate his birthday? That's a stupid question right? But anyway, you've known him ages, all his life I suppose…right, all his life and you might know. What he likes. Or hates. Or-"

Mercifully the machine seemed to have decided it couldn't bear to listen to the rambling message any longer and had cut him off.

It was bizarre to understand. Sherlock hated ramblers, babblers and any sort of wasted breath, yet when John did it he seemed to just smile and wait patiently for John to run out of steam then, showing he'd actually listened (miracles never ceased), simply replied to the pertinent facts.

Perhaps it was the honesty. Mycroft had never met anyone more painfully honest than John. It was as if the boy had been born without a filter and couldn't stop vocalising the thoughts that danced across his mind.

Except that he could.

It really was the strangest thing. John Watson, despite the fact that he babbled endlessly at times, was also the product of a broken home, an abusive mother, alcoholic sister and being rather lacking in funds.

None of which was ever immediately apparent. And he reacted like no other person Mycroft had met with these circumstances.

John Watson just shrugged at it.

_"The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over." _Wasn't that what Aesop had said?

It wasn't necessarily the ability to bend that Sherlock was fascinated by; while perhaps a rare quality it was still not that difficult to find if one looked properly.

No, it was John Watson's ability to stand straight back up that called to Sherlock.

"My brother hasn't received a present in years," Mycroft studied the Beijing report on his desk as he talked to John. "If you manage to actually find him on his birthday then you have my sympathies."

There was a long sigh, "Was there ever a present that he liked?"

"Solitary confinement."

"Mycroft!"

Did John think he was joking? "What Sherlock wants, he takes. Gifts only make the 'taking' dull to him."

"You really don't get him a present?"

What was the point? To store it in the attic with the rest? They'd tried locking Sherlock up there once to force him to open what they had been unable to give him for the past four years. His brother had just wriggled out the upper window and clambered over the roof, knocked out the aerial for next door and stalked off as if scrambling over the roof like a thief or a flying monkey was a perfectly acceptable method of leaving one's house.

"It is pointless," Mycroft replied, a flash of irritation brewing at the accusational tone. "He only goes to foolish lengths to escape them. One would think we were offering him the bubonic plague some days."

"Huh," John said sounding worryingly (there was that word again) thoughtful.

"Sir?"

Mycroft looked up. "Yes?"

"Your brother is at St Barts. With Mr Watson."

On the 6th of January? John was exceeding his expectations.

"With a body."

"What?!"

John had gone home half an hour ago and Sherlock was still in the building. Approaching him cautiously, Mycroft stared at his brother.

He was sat on a roaming stool, hunched over and inspecting the fingernails with a microscope, muttering under his breath.

"Do not ruin the day Mycroft, it was proving somewhat useful."

"He got you a body?"

Sherlock looked up and Mycroft was stunned to see he was actually wearing a mask. "Yes." Sherlock said as if that wasn't at all out of the ordinary. "I can't leave any marks on it though."

Was it Mycroft's imagination or did Sherlock sound disappointed.

That was surely wrong.

"Homeless," Mycroft muttered, stepping forward. "For four years-"

"Five," Sherlock corrected dully. "Get your own present Mycroft!"

How on earth had John-

Ah.

"He doesn't have the plague does he?"

Outside Mycroft paused, collecting all the facts.

Sherlock had been adhering to autopsy protocol.

Sherlock was obeying the rules John had quite clearly laid down.

Sherlock had not only allowed himself to be given a birthday present but had been utterly fascinated by it.

Sherlock had been sober.

Sherlock had been happy.

John Watson was possibly more ingenious than anyone had ever suspected.

**Victor Trevor - 11th January**

Amused, Victor watched Sherlock slink off into the back room with Peters. Then felt less amused when he remembered how free and easy Sherlock was with fifties.

And with pretty much everything else.

He was bored. And Sherlock's little sulk really had gone on long enough.

Opening the door he watched Peters dance back, tiny white bag in his hand.

"Fuck," Peters hissed looking irritated. "Come on!"

Victor flicked his hand at the bag and, with great reluctance Peters handed it over.

"Fuck off," Victor suggested smoothly.

Peters did as he was told.

Looking vaguely amused, Sherlock held out the money again, "If you insist," he said rolling his eyes. "A little childish don't you think?"

"I don't want your money."

Sherlock pulled back the money, "Your loss," he said sounding calm and tried to side step Victor.

Victor moved with him.

Staring at him, Sherlock smiled, "Your nose looks a little…wonky." He smirked looking proud. "It would have almost been worth seeing you before now to have caught a glimpse of the bruise."

"You're lucky I haven't sent my Uncle's men to have a chat with that little shit."

But Sherlock pressed his lips together, "Really? You would have it publically known that a boy, unconnected and unimportant in your world, got the best of you-"

"He didn't!" Victor snarled, pushing against Sherlock. "I won that."

Unflinching Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, "Yes," he said smiling patronisingly, "I'm sure. Move or let me pay."

Nodding Victor stepped back a little and hefted the bag in his hand. Opening it he dipped a finger in and rubbed it into his mouth.

"You know the game," he said smirking.

Sherlock nodded, then pulled a twenty off of the pile of notes in his hand and shoved it in his own pocket. "You're depleting the worth of your merchandise Victor. No wonder Frank has you on such a pathetic leash."

Fucker! How dare he imply…Victor's brain suddenly focused.

Sherlock had never refused their game before.

"Oh!" Victor laughed, "Oh no," he leaned forward, "Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes has…committed?"

Not a flicker of reaction.

"With him? Boy wonder? Oh that is brilliant! Well done." Victor licked his lips, "Isn't it delicious to corrupt? Does he still blush? Scream?" He smiled, "Is this for him or for you?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

This was addictively fun!

"Have you fucked him yet? Pretended to care? Soothed him and told him it was okay? Virgins like that. They think you're Christ on a stick if you do it right. Then you can push. How long before I can watch?" Victor smirked, "How long before I can play with your new little toy and make him cr-"

Victor had forgotten how quick Sherlock could move. Like lightning he had Victor's throat in his hand and had pushed him against the wall, his own knife suddenly in Sherlock's hands and pressed dangerously close to Victor's dick.

Freezing Victor grimaced., "My Uncle will kill you," he warned.

There was a hiss of annoyance and Sherlock looked away for a moment. When he looked back he was utterly composed again.

"Are you selling or not?"

Victor smirked. "Apparently my price is too high!" he whispered, delighting in the way Sherlock's hand shook.

He wouldn't do it. He was treading on dangerous ground as it was by just threatening Victor this way.

Sherlock pulled back, dropping the knife and holding up his hands to make a point.

Surrender.

"Good luck," Victor straightened himself out. "You may have to go a little further afield to buy!"

Sherlock snorted, "You're hardly that influential Victor. Or interesting."

**Alfred Baird – 13th January**

Where the hell had John got to? He'd been around a few minutes ago, looking around with those big wide eyes that were so not his thing.

Maybe a little bit.

Man, he was tense. And there was a guy in the corner, all tall and thick necked and dumb looking.

Smoke first. Shag later.

Outside was fucking freezing! He needed to move to LA or Las Vegas or something.

Walking a bit of a distance so the bouncers wouldn't smell his spliff (and, knowing most of them, ask for a drag) Alfred wandered down one of the side roads before he pulled out his lighter.

There was a moan.

Cool.

Putting the lighter away, Alfred stepped into the shadows and turned the corner.

Holy Christ on a bike!

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't see what the hell they were doing, it was hidden by their coats but there was the unmistakable elbow rhythm that made him grin.

Good for them…mental bastards in this weather.

There was a strangled gasp from John and his hand clenched the base of Sherlock's neck as he buried his head in the taller man's shoulder. Sherlock's arm was braced against the wall and the fingers curled.

John was doing the work then. Good lad.

It appeared they had finished though; John let out a shuddering breath and mouthed at Sherlock's neck as the elbows stopped frantically pumping. Then he pulled back a little, holding up a drenched hand in the half-light cast by the street lamp.

Sherlock stepped back and dug into his pockets, pulling out a pack of what looked like baby wipes.

Alf blinked and then restrained the urge to chuckle.

"Here," Sherlock said, holding them out to John.

"You're not gonna ask me to lick my fingers?" John asked cheekily.

Yeah? That would work!

But Sherlock was stonily silent and John ended up sighing. "Are you ever gonna get checked out?"

What would be the point? Sherlock Holmes wasn't known for his patience - intravenous was his preferred method and you never could be too careful when using needles.

John wiped his hands, looking unhappy. "Are we ever gonna…you know…fuck?" he asked sounding as if he dreaded the answer. "I'm not a fucking blushing bride!"

They weren't fucking? And God only knew why Sherlock, weirdo that he could be, took the soiled wipes and put them back in his pocket.

"Not in an alleyway," Sherlock said frankly.

"Yeah, that would be perverted, doing stuff in an alleyway, against a filthy wall." John muttered sarcastically. "Oh, wait," he looked around, "Guess we don't have that much of a problem with it"

"It's hardly the same."

John made a noise only the truly sexually frustrated could make, "Why? Stop making it into such a big deal!"

"Because you are more than just a quick shag against some filthy wall!" Sherlock kicked at an empty bottle fiercely. "You deserve more than that. And I-" he cut himself off, turning so Alf could see part of his face and the expressions on it.

Expressions that did not belong on Sherlock Homes' face.

For the first time Alf started to feel a tiny bit uncomfortable, as if he was watching something he shouldn't be.

John dug his hands in his pockets, "It…it just has to be you!" he said softly. "You know that. And hey, you were the one who said attitude is half the battle…or have you changed your mind?" the last was said with such dread that Alf almost wanted to go out and give him a hug.

He wouldn't though. He'd be sliced six ways to Sunday by Sherlock if the man ever discovered he'd been watched.

Sherlock's expression became startled. Hesitant.

At least he thought that was what they were, such emotions never used to cross Sherlock's face before John.

Stepping forward Sherlock dipped his head, nudging John's lips up with his own. Whatever he said to John was far too soft to hear, but then he leaned forward the rest of the way and kissed him.

Alf was hardly a stranger to kissing. He'd got that kissing disease back in his late teens and no-one had been surprised. Filthy kisses, funny kisses, friendly kisses, sweet kisses, wet kisses, angry kisses and happy kisses.

But this was…careful, dreadfully careful and intimate.

Oh shit he shouldn't be watching this.

He stepped back around the corner and risked losing half his spliff to the bouncers.


	17. To those who wait

**Thank you so, so much to Eowyn and lutz-chan for betaing this chapter - both are amazingly lovely for offering!**

* * *

**Chapter Summary: Good things come to those who wait**

**Warnings: Smutty times!**

* * *

**"To those who wait"**

**University Year 3: 23****rd**** January**

"John? Would you mind staying behind after?"

That wasn't good! Never in his life had John been asked to stay behind for anything…well, nothing that had been good. Throwing a pleading glance at Mike, John leaned in as they finished putting everything away, "Does Dr Evans look mad?"

Mike looked at him, then peered over John's shoulder in the most obvious move known to man. "Uh…he looks like he's trying not to laugh."

"You have absolutely no subtlety!" John complained glaring.

Looking unfazed and unconcerned at that Mike shrugged, "Oh well, can't have it all!"

* * *

"Uh…you wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes." Dr Evans smiled as he packed up his papers, "There's no need to look so worried John, everything is alright."

"Okay…that's…good?" John shifted, "Why do you need to see me?" he asked nervously.

"I was wondering if you would be interested in tutoring some second year students? There are three that have, due to circumstances, missed some weeks and need to catch up. I have been told you did exceedingly well in the module."

"I…uh yeah I enjoyed it," John grinned, "It was fun!"

Dr Evans looked even more amused. "Excellent."

"Wait…can I ask, why me?" John watched the brown eyes glance up, startled at the question. "I mean, I know others who did better-"

"You are one of the few who I think could cope with the extra work load at this point in the year. That said John, should it affect your studies you must come and tell me."

John nodded, "Thank you…yes. I mean yes!"

* * *

"I'm a genius!" John announced as he let himself into Sherlock's room. "Not your sort of genius but still!"

Sherlock was typing and only lifted his eyes from the screen, "I see. Their reward for your hard work is to make you work harder?"

John nodded excitedly and grinned as Sherlock's brows drew together in confusion and he closed his eyes, clearly torn as to whether he should be amused or continue to be derogative.

John shut the door and dumped his bag on the floor. "You know, " he said walking over to the bed Sherlock lay sprawled on, "I'm like a teacher now!" He crawled up the bed and straddled Sherlock's legs. "Wanna be teacher's pet?"

Sherlock actually winced, "We need to improve your seduction technique."

Undeterred John peered over the back of the laptop and read the article about…cow tipping upside down. "You changed what you were looking at!" he accused and sighed dramatically, "Well if you think I need to improve I suppose I'll just go and stand outside the building propositioning people until I see what works!"

"Keep a chart," Sherlock suggested, the screen changing again to an email about some trade document thing that had John's eyes glazed over in seconds. "I'd be fascinated to see the data."

Amused, John reached out and fished a pen and paper from the side table. "Okay," he said, tipping the screen forward so he could use the back as a rest for the paper. "Let's see. I could just randomly undo people's jeans and see what happens."

"If you're determined to get arrested there are far more interesting things you could do."

"Like cow tipping?" John asked.

Sherlock flashed a smile as he started to type, "Try to be a little more imaginative."

"For being arrested or trying to seduce someone?"

Sherlock stuck his tongue out as he typed, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Bored, John wriggled off his legs and sat on the bed, staring at his bag. He should really get started on his notes but he really couldn't be arsed either.

Instead he lay on his stomach, head by Sherlock's bare feet. They were oddly cute for a man for whom nothing at first glance would be called cute. Pale, fine boned and arched.

John pressed a kiss to the skin. The toes curled reflexively and John grinned, stroking a finger over a vein he could see travelling under that fine smooth skin.

It took a moment to realise the typing had paused.

"Sorry," John turned to look over his shoulder, "Am I distracting you?"

Sherlock pulled a stubborn face, "No," he replied and snapped back to the screen.

Suddenly feeling impish, John twisted a little, trailing his finger along the vein to Sherlock's ankle and nudging his trousers up with his nose as he used his tongue to follow his fingers.

The typing didn't slow. If anything it sped up.

Making a small noise of complaint when the trousers prevented him from going much higher, John reluctantly continued his path above the fabric, pressing kisses and feather light touches up Sherlock's mile long leg.

"How much more have you got to write?"

"Two more minutes," Sherlock's voice had dropped and John hid his triumphant smirk into Sherlock's leg.

Any further up would lead to a problem – namely the laptop and Sherlock's hands. Pausing to consider the situation John thought about the options.

And decided to slide a hand to wander between Sherlock's legs.

The tapping paused.

"Finished yet?" John enquired.

"Checking before I continue." Sherlock corrected as his breathing sped up a little.

John watched his hand disappear further and further until Sherlock suddenly snapped his legs shut, trapping John's hand before it could go any further.

"Hey!"

"One minute," Sherlock assured him, his thighs utterly solid against John's hand.

Oh God, there were way too many images in his head from that now. With one hand gone, John slid his only remaining one down to his own jeans buttons.

When he looked back up the typing had slowed, but was still a steady drumbeat as Sherlock, not at all focused on the screen, tilted his head to watch.

"One more minute?" John teased.

"Three if you keep distracting me," Sherlock said pointedly.

"Then let me strip off and in a minute that will be one less thing to worry about."

With a nod, Sherlock released his hand and John sat up on his knees, pulling his jumper and t-shirt over his head in one smooth move.

Sherlock was looking over his laptop screen and instantly snapped his gaze down again when he saw John had spotted him. John wriggled out of the rest of his clothes but Sherlock never once looked up again.

It was amazing that the man could have such iron control in some things and absolutely none in others.

No sooner had John sat back on the bed than Sherlock practically tossed the laptop onto the floor with a slight crash that made John lean forward in concern, only to be attacked by teeth and tongue and hands and acres of Sherlock Holmes at his best.

"So, do you still want me to practice my seduction technique outside?"

Sherlock huffed a laugh against his lips, "Maybe just to refine the technique."

John changed tactics and tried to wrestle Sherlock to pin him to the bed, ending up on top of the man, glaring down. "I'll bet you made at least one mistake on that email."

"You can check if you like."

Nah, John had far more important things to do!

Like stripping the smug idiot underneath him.

* * *

When Sherlock was a writhing mess (and John was the smug one) he reached out and back, realising they were at the completely wrong end of the bed for ease of access to the condom drawer.

"Here,"

John gaped down at him. "Do you produce them or something?"

"You were prepared," Sherlock nodded at his jeans.

"Thief!" John muttered, slinking forward again and holding his hand out for the condom. But Sherlock seemed to be looking at it thoughtfully.

"Unless we don't need one?" John said, hating how hopeful he sounded.

"Of course we need one," Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have strayed, then he lowered his hands. Surprised John just shrugged and leaned down to kiss him, unable to remember the last time Sherlock had done that himself-

Mid-kiss John yelped in surprise as the condom slid on him instead. Stunned he glanced down, watching the long fingers roll the damned thing down.

Hey!

"I haven't-" What the hell did Sherlock think he'd done? "I swear I've never-"

"Of course you haven't," Sherlock's hand was reaching down for his own trousers now.

John blinked, "I'm so trying not to be offended or a git…why do I need one then?"

Sherlock pressed something into his hands.

Lube.

Stunned and a tiny bit awed (or was that terrified) John looked up. "But I thought-"

Sherlock brushed a strand of hair out of John's eyes. "You have had sex before John," he reminded him firmly.

"But-" how the hell did he explain that he had kind of wanted Sherlock to take control, at least until John felt more confident or at least saw what to do. What if…Christ the amount of "what ifs" running through his head at the moment was insane.

Sherlock leaned up and kissed him. Bracing his arms on either side of his head, John followed Sherlock back down so his partner wasn't craning his neck.

And it was a strange moment of epiphany.

Whether or not it was Sherlock's intention (and knowing Sherlock, John doubted that it was) John had a chance to look after him for once, to take the lead and give something back.

"_I hadn't…I have never done that with someone I cared about."_

Suddenly there was nothing John wanted more in the world.

It wasn't scary to prepare Sherlock – they'd done that sort of thing enough times and John was confident enough with that to know what Sherlock liked, what made him grip at John's shoulder as he always did and breath shakily into John's ear.

Grabbing a pillow with his toes and manoeuvring it up in a manner that probably wasn't as smooth as he'd like to believe, he slid it under Sherlock's hips, angling him up and pressing a kiss to the hip bone as he withdrew his fingers.

Angling himself slightly he aimed himself until he was just seated inside the opening ring of muscles before bracing his elbows back on either side of Sherlock's head, running a hand through the mess of curls as he kissed him slowly.

And, just as slowly, pushed forward, what felt like millimetre by millimetre.

Under him Sherlock shifted, locking his leg around John's waist and tipping himself to give a much better angle.

It took a fucking epic amount of control to not change the carefully slow push.

"John-" Sherlock hissed against his lips, "Mo-"

"Please," John whispered, brushing lips against Sherlock's cheek, "Let me do this my way."

* * *

Gentle lips trailed across his shoulders, a hand, linked with his, was pressed into the bed by his head as the other gripped at his hip, smoothing a careful thumb over the skin there.

The pace was decadently slow in a way he'd never experienced before, as if orgasm would be an afterthought. There was a heady temptation to control the long, wonderful thrusts with his legs; to pull John in at a far greater speed.

But he had promised, and this was new, uncharted territory. Terrifying in its intensity.

John's lips never stopped moving, whispered words that Sherlock could barely make out but that were said in a gentle, reverent tone that made his body hum with soothed pleasure, gentle kisses that made his heart flutter and careful brushes of lips and tongue that made him arch and gasp.

"Sorry," John whispered, up at his ear again now, "I get a bit overly affectionate…" he let go of Sherlock's hand and ducked his eyes.

That girl, that idiot girl, was beyond stupid.

Sighing in frustration, Sherlock grabbed at his hand, linked it again and rearranged their linked hands back into their previous position. "If I disliked it I would tell you," he muttered, searching John's lips out.

"Promise?"

Sherlock nodded, shifting a little and enjoying the gentle sparks John was eliciting from his entire body. It hadn't taken John long to find the prostate and, while not exactly perfect every thrust, John was getting better and better with every passing second.

Nothing slow had ever been this good before. Slow was meant to be ordinary, dull, pointless, brain rotting and boring but this…it was like being able to stop everything and experience the world completely as it was at a single moment.

And John…John Watson like this was utterly devastating. Sweat was turning his hair darker and his face was flushed from the incredible will power he was showing and the exertion in using that will power. Eyes dark with desire until their colour was like shot silk, impossible to gauge. Bitten lip that was all Sherlock's own work and the faintest flush on his throat and chest from Sherlock's minor stubble rose something primordial within Sherlock. John was his.

But it was the look, the stunned, awed look that John would occasionally give him that was intoxicating. The slightly terrified, slightly protective look as if Sherlock was something he considered…precious?

John was a bloody idiot at times if he thought that, but something in Sherlock still warmed to the idea, misconceived and idealistic as it was.

"Stay with me," John whispered into his ear. "Please," he added, stroking at Sherlock's temple.

"I am." Sherlock licked a strip of his jaw line, fascinated by the way bones and blood and flesh made up this wonderful man. "Thinking about you," he added. "Just you."

There was a slight shiver that ran through John's body, relief or arousal Sherlock couldn't tell and a small part of him hated that John had thought he was elsewhere. John's hand slid down and down until he was wrapped around Sherlock.

"John-"

Not yet. He wasn't ready for this to end yet.

But John shot him an apologetic look, "This is really hard!" he confessed looking strained.

Feeling a wave of emotion, Sherlock brushed a thumb over John's mouth. "How long?" he asked watching as John nipped at the tip of his thumb.

John let out a shaking laugh, "Er, how long have we been doing this? You arched earlier and I thought I was about to burst a blood vessel!"

Smiling Sherlock thrust into John's hand, frowning when John removed it. "You're close," he hummed, creeping his own hand down.

John breathed heavily, "You aren't," he said frankly. "I don't want to rush you."

Any other time Sherlock would have snapped he was being foolish, but there was something…something telling him not to, something telling him to go as carefully with John here as John was going with him. "Go slow then," he said, pressing a kiss to the shaking arm braced on the mattress.

John nodded and dipped his other hand again, gentle strokes that made the earlier sparks suddenly crackle and jolt with delicious pleasure. A sudden wonderfully aimed stroke both inside and out made Sherlock hiss with sheer pleasure and clench.

And that made John swear. "Fucking hell," he almost cried, sounding utterly wretched as he bit at his lip and looked down. When John glanced back up his eyes were bright. "That was…really good!" he muttered, "You're killing me."

No, it was completely the other way around. John seemed to have taken torture lessons in slow pleasure.

He could feel it, creeping up, tingling from the base of his spine and rearing up. Such a strange feeling to have the pleasure build like this – Sherlock was used to orgasms that were like a hit of cocaine – instant and blinding or instant and disappointing. Never this strange spiral of being aware and tugged under a wave at the same time.

John sucked in a surprised breath, his face close to Sherlock's and shaking.

It would take a pin point of pressure now-

"Need you," John said in a wrecked whisper.

The tidal wave reared and struck.

* * *

John was buried in Sherlock's shoulder, panting like he'd run a marathon.

He hadn't been keeping up his runs in the morning and the tenuous gym evenings with some friends. It seemed to imply that the army idea was long dead.

Thankfully, because there was no way Sherlock was voluntarily giving this up. Brushing a hand over John's hair, Sherlock cupped his hand and stroked his thumb against the crown, waiting and enjoying the after tingles in his toes.

That had been far better than expected. In truth Sherlock had been prepared to guide John along and soothe his nerves. Where the sudden confident, utterly considerate and patient lover had sprung from Sherlock hadn't a clue.

But he wasn't complaining.

John was truly magnificent when he believed in himself. Perhaps he should slip a twenty into the Doctor's pocket; the one that had made John bounce into the room as if he'd won the moon.

"Think I died," John complained, muffled by Sherlock's collarbone. "Don't let Harry bury me in a pink coffin!"

That would not be happening. John wasn't allowed to die. And, if that fateful day ever happened (in the future, years and years from now) Sherlock would hardly hand over his body to the alcoholic harpy that scratched and tore at John simply because she didn't know what else to do.

Not wanting to reply to that, Sherlock stroked his free hand down John's back, unencumbered by anything.

Groaning in complaint, John pushed himself up and carefully pulled out of Sherlock. There was hardly any pain, just a pleasant ache that felt more like muscle burn after a good exercise.

John shifted out of the bed to head for the bathroom, yanking on Sherlock's dressing gown. "Back in a sec," he called, wobbling out and shutting the door.

Alone Sherlock sat up, feeling strangely…just strange.

He could make people scream in pleasure, make them cry and beg, writhe and grab with desperate hands. He could deduce what people wanted in seconds, knew every kink that was out there and had tried most. There were things he could do to John that John had never dreamed of, things that would make John's toes curl and his voice hoarse.

But what John had just done…Sherlock had no idea how to even begin replicating that. How to make sex and fucking into something slow and heady, patient and loving.

There was a phrase, skittering at the edge of his mind that he couldn't even bring himself to think of because of the sheer sentimental drivel associated with it but…god help him, it seemed to fit.

He had just made…

No.

John wandered back in, eyes heavy and mouth curling in amusement. "Your flat-mate's trying to drown himself in beer," he announced, "We may have been a tiny bit too loud for…" he frowned at the clock, "half past four in the afternoon."

The people who cared about that had clearly never experienced John Watson.

"I'm shattered," John complained, sliding into the bed still wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. Then turned frowning, "Uh…you aren't deleting that are you?"

"No." John had the strangest ideas sometimes.

John nodded and sighed, "You're in one of those retrospective, analyse the crap out of everything moods, right?"

Sherlock braced himself and let out a breath, trying to pull out of the thought to make an effort with John, no matter how much the thoughts and questions battered.

But John, wonderful, blessed John just shrugged and reached for the laptop. "If I fall asleep you may have to rescue this. It's taken enough hits recently as it is!" he added curling up around the machine.

Placing his chin on his knee, Sherlock studied John closely. Still so young, the boyish charm and easy grin were still strongly apparent. His skin unmarred and smooth. Last year it had been an exercise in self-control when summer had come and John had stripped off his shirt to welcome a golden tan while playing football or rugby. Deliciously tempting honey gold skin had distracted Sherlock more than once. His hair was tussled from Sherlock's hands and just the length Sherlock preferred.

The army would cut it. It would scar him, damage him. He'd lose the radiating ease and innocence, lose the honest wave of information that some called babbling. John would have to close up, sharpen up, toughen up.

"My mother has a friend, a surgeon, if you'd like to meet her."

John looked up, "Should I be worried that you were thinking of your mother after we've just had sex?" he asked, sounding half amused, half genuinely concerned.

"Contacts are always useful."

John nodded, "Yeah, couldn't hurt!" he grinned childishly, "Can I pretend it was my surgeon-like delicacy of touch and pinpoint precision that shot your thoughts off in that direction?"

Sherlock nodded, narrowing his eyes again and with a sigh and a roll of his eyes John turned back to the laptop.

Everything changed; it was the way of the world. Why then was he so determined to keep John like this; to keep John smooth and sweet and hidden? Why did his mind always drift to the secret terror that one day he would be the one to drag John down and destroy him?

John made an annoyed sound and Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow. Despite not looking over, John answered the unspoken question.

"Not one mistake!" John looked dreadfully disappointed, "How do you manage that?"

Ah, the email.

"You're reading my message?"

"You left it open," John tutted, smiling.

Fair enough.

Sherlock reached out to peel off the dressing gown and pulled it around himself. John cracked a yawn and leaned further into the pillow. Smiling as Sherlock pulled the covers over him to replace the warmth of the dressing gown.

In the bathroom Sherlock braced against the sink, staring at his reflection. Turning, he knelt and slid the bath panel along to stare at the packets behind.

Sitting with his back against the toilet, he thought.

* * *

Next Chapter: It's Valentines Day and it's not going quite how Sherlock expected it would go.


	18. Blind

**So sorry for the delay; this chapter hated me.**

**Thanks again to my lovely betas :)**

* * *

**Chapter Summary: It's Valentine's Day and things are not going the way Sherlock expected.**

* * *

**John 3****rd**** February**

Sherlock had gone bloody insane. Or was really angry. Or bored.

Possibly all three; it wasn't as if Sherlock ever did things in halves.

It took the ninth time of having a pointless argument for John to snap.

"God, if it annoys you so much go home!" John muttered watching Sherlock tear his room apart looking for who the hell knew what.

"I just need to think!" Sherlock snapped. "I can't think."

This. Every time they had a fight recently this came up. Sherlock's assertion that he couldn't think properly, that he was unable to see something, that the world was crawling over him or buzzing.

John had tried everything; sex, massages, talking, walking, sacrificing his friends to Sherlock's deductive skills, cooking, laughing about his cooking, everything.

Nothing seemed to be working. And Sherlock would usually stomp off home and reappear after three or four days, then slowly the mad cycle would begin again.

Maybe this was what relationships were like when the honeymoon period wore off. If so it was a fucking miracle anyone made it to ten years, let alone fifty.

New tactic then. Ignore him.

John just dropped his gaze to his text book and kept reading.

"John! Did you hear me? I don't know where your paperwork is!"

"Top drawer, left. At the back," John replied in a dull tone.

"I didn't know where it was!"

"Now you do."

"That is not the point!" Sherlock snarled, actually snarled as if he were a dangerous, wild creature suddenly summoned into John's room. "You told me."

God, he was getting a headache.

"Next time I won't."

"You are deliberately missing the point."

"To this pointless argument? I wonder why?" He'd read the same paragraph about five times now.

Sherlock seethed and knocked something off the top of the drawers. Probably a glass from the sound.

John kept reading. "I'll happily listen properly if you tell me what the real problem is."

Silence.

Okay then.

* * *

**Sherlock 10****th**** Februa****ry**

Valentine's day was fast approaching.

It was not a particularly favourite time of the year; in fact Sherlock would go as far as to say that is was a loathsome time of the year that should be abandoned post haste and forgotten about as quickly as those blasted card shops that had been constructed just to irritate people into bothering about certain days of the year.

But it was the done thing to treat the "special someone" (another abysmal phrase) to a good day and John should be treated. Or at least not made to feel as if Sherlock didn't care.

The things he did for love. Though John had procured a body for his birthday so he really did owe John a favour.

There were limits though. No flowers (John would think he had gone mad and the things would probably shrivel up and rot within five seconds of crossing John's threshold) and no chocolate (John wasn't a huge fan of chocolate and Sherlock was damned if he was spending absurd amounts of money to help Mike fill out). There were to be no cuddly toys or jewellery exchanging hands, which left a lot of the usual Valentine's day treats to be unacceptable.

What did one get when they were in a committed, monogamous, homosexual relationship? There should be a website, or a guide or something to help. Usually Sherlock would go to John for such problems but, sadly, that was not really an option.

The card shop was a trial. Beyond idiotic. Rows and rows of mundane, dull poetry and empty messages. Silly animals gazing adoringly (exactly what was it about the day that made people entertain the idea that animals and romance were somehow linked?) and cartoon characters that looked as if a five year old had been sat down with some frazzled moron for half an hour (not that it would be surprising to discover that idea was close to the truth).

It was made worse by the fact that he had managed five days this time. Five long, long days shadowing John just so he had something else to focus on. If he gave in this time John might start to realise what was happening.

And that was the very last thing Sherlock wanted.

* * *

**John – 11****th**** February**

"So dare I ask what you two are doing for Valentine's Day?" Mike asked hesitantly, "Or is it gonna disturb us all to hear your plans."

"Nothing," John replied firmly from where he sat, Sherlock's feet on his lap as he munched on a bag of Ready Salted Crisps that were all that had been left in the cupboard.

Mike glanced between the two of them looking suddenly wary and John looked over at a rather startled looking Sherlock.

"Please, it's hardly your kind of thing," John said squeezing one of Sherlock's feet. "Candlelit dinners and long moonlit walks?"

"I was unaware those activities were set in stone," Sherlock was frowning now.

John just shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of it," he said turning away. "I thought you'd be fine with not doing anything."

Mike cleared his throat awkwardly, "Uh…" he looked away seeming frustrated.

"Did you want the sofa?" John asked, then restrained the urge to sigh when Sherlock pushed his feet firmly into John's lap as if to prevent him from ever moving again. "Don't be such a child," John muttered, "You've been nagging me for an hour to go and see the new exhibit at the science museum."

Sherlock nodded and took his feet off John's lap, swinging himself to sit up. "Fine. Shoes, quickly," he announced darting into John's room.

It was like having a small puppy at times.

"I…I was kinda hoping for some advice," Mike said awkwardly. "About what to do with Kirsty on Valentine's Day."

John shrugged, "Sorry mate, no idea."

"You've never taken a girl out on Valentine's Day?" Mike asked disbelieving.

Once. When he was fourteen he'd taken a girl to the cinema while Harry had taken her newest girlfriend for a proper meal.

"No," John said firmly, pushing away where that line of thought was going. "I told you, it's not my thing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I get to take Sherlock to his version of a sweet shop for however long it takes for security to throw us out."

Sherlock appeared again, dropping John's shoes and coat onto the sofa. "Quickly," he barked.

John smiled grimly up at Mike then laughed as Sherlock huffed a sigh and decided to try and put John's shoes on himself.

* * *

**Sherlock 12****th**** February**

Clearly John had some strange issue with the day. But every couple Sherlock saw were doing something for Valentine's Day. And, as far as he could tell it was a win-win to follow the crowd. Either John secretly did want to engage in the activity but was afraid of being mocked for it or there was a genuine reason for his uncharacteristic hate of the day which Sherlock would discover by getting John to participate in the ritual.

However, there were some difficulties, such as what to buy.

"Make it special," Paul told Andy as they sat watching TV while John was out picking up the Chinese.

"I am not scattering roses on the bed, last time I did that I got a fucking thorn-bush in my arse!"

Hyperbole. Sherlock remained silent, trying to focus on the rhythm under his fingers as he tapped against the sofa arm. He kept losing count.

"Not like that you berk! I meant make it personal. Like her favourite sweet or her perfume. Something that shows you actually pay attention," Paul argued.

Personal. Interesting.

"But…I have a feeling that means paying attention," Andy said slowly, "Fucking hell Paul, this is me we're talking about!"

What would John want that was personal?

Sherlock lost the rhythm again as a sudden shudder ran through him, dancing away his vision for a few seconds.

Want.

Clenching his hands into fists he glared at the television, trying to ignore what his body was telling him.

* * *

John liked drumsticks; the sweet, chewy things on a stick and would bemoan that they no longer used sherbet in the middle.

John liked old medical books with the intricate drawings and would flick though with fascination, sneezing at the dusty pages.

John liked food and John probably needed to eat out because there was only so much salt the human body could take from frozen pizzas before it started to complain.

John liked the cinema. Sherlock was not that patient. But Sherlock could manage a film on the laptop. Maybe. An old one that he could make fun of and John could defend between giggles.

John liked experiments. Sherlock could work with that – there were some nettles growing in John's "garden" and he could show John how nettles could be used.

That surely covered chocolate, personal present, dinner, activity and flowers.

Even if he had needed a tiny sprinkling of what was left from under the bath.

* * *

**John - 14****th**** February**

When John opened his eyes Sherlock was staring at him, fully dressed and waiting like a kid on Christmas morning.

"What did you do?" John asked warily, freezing under the bed covers.

"Would you like tea?"

Really nervous now, John slowly started to sit up. "I…oh God, have you finally killed someone?" he asked warily.

Sherlock glared, "Why would I kill someone and ask you if you wanted tea?"

Because it was Sherlock? "Okay," John said slowly, looking around the room for a clue as to what was going on. "Tea would be great," he said, still half expecting that it had been a trick or that he'd missed something.

Sherlock nodded and disappeared.

Sighing, John yanked some clothes on, figuring if this was Sherlock's way of announcing he was about to become a fugitive John had at least better be dressed first.

"You're meant to stay in bed," Sherlock complained as he walked in with a steaming cup. "How can I bring you tea in bed if you're not actually in the bed?"

John had to repeat the sentence back to himself to ensure he'd heard that correctly. Utterly bewildered now, he sat on the bed and pulled the cover back over himself. Sherlock rolled his eyes and passed him the cup. "I suppose that will do," he sulked.

Not sure what he was meant to do, John just drank his tea, relatively sure he wouldn't get scolded for that.

"So…" John stared down at the milky liquid, impressed at how good it actually tasted. "Is this my tea?" he asked suddenly.

"I bought you tea bags." Sherlock said watching him closely.

Huh. Well at least that sort of made up for the gallons of tea Sherlock had drunk over the past few years for free. "It's good," John studied it as if the brand would suddenly appear in the cup.

"It's Darjeeling tea."

That sounded…fancy. "Is it new?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, "Yes John. Brand new," he said in a voice that suggested John was being an idiot.

Who cared? He had good tea!

"Thank you," John grinned, "It's amazing."

Sherlock seemed pleased with himself.

* * *

_What time tonight? _

John sighed at the text from his sister, thumbing over the buttons thoughtfully.

"Here." John stared at the bunch of nettles that was presented to him. Raising his eyes slowly he stared up at Sherlock.

"Why?" he asked slowly.

"Have you ever studied them?"

"No," John said frankly. "No, they never came up strangely enough in GCSE science."

"If you become a GP people might come in after being stung by them." Sherlock lay the nettles on the table. "You should have an in depth understanding to prevent the morons from returning."

John watched him set out some kitchen stuff and what looked like equipment stolen from uni onto the battered old coffee table, then looked down at his text.

Anything was better than focusing on tonight.

* * *

"Drumstick?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?" The nettles were actually kind of fascinating and Sherlock had brought some Doc-leaves with him as well to explain the acid/alkaline reaction and how it all worked.

A brown paper bag was rattled at him impatiently and John obeyed the silent command, digging his hand in and coming out with the wrapped sweet on a stick.

Sucking thoughtfully, John watched as Sherlock explained the next process, barely focusing on the words but on the man instead. The sharp, analytical gaze as he calmly, patiently (who would have thought that word applied to Sherlock?) and methodically worked his way through what he was doing. It was a side he didn't get to see all that often.

And it was oddly cute watching Sherlock, cross legged on the floor as he leaned onto the chipped coffee table, utterly intent on his experiment.

John pulled the stick out of his mouth in surprise when he tasted sherbet.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, delighted.

"Old sweet shop in an arcade," Sherlock replied sounding distracted.

John popped the sweet back in his mouth happily.

* * *

**Sherlock 14****th**** February**

John was oblivious.

It was oddly endearing and for a moment Sherlock almost found himself wishing they could do this more often.

It wouldn't be healthy for John though; he'd already scoffed four drumsticks. Though watching him lovingly suck at the last one had been an experience Sherlock wouldn't mind repeating.

One day, one day he would have John's tongue on him like that, unhampered by latex, but for now it was enough to reach over, pull John forward and kiss him, exploring the sweet strawberry sugared taste from the sweet and lick at the remains of the sherbert-

For a moment he found himself imagining it was cocaine then cut that idea off sharply. Never, not with John.

Pulling John further forward, his partner ended up straddling him where Sherlock sat, leaning down to keep their kiss going. It was an interesting angle; strange to tip his head up to John as John fumbled with his buttons. Sherlock tugged John's t-shirt up, over his head and ran eager hands down his back, enjoying the feel of warm smooth skin under his finger tips.

"Bedroom," John gasped, "I'm so not having a repeat of Andy."

Chuckling at the memory into John's mouth Sherlock nodded and let John go. John was grinning down at him, holding out his hand and glancing up out of habit.

Then John's eyes found something that made the smile falter. On the floor Sherlock turned to see what he was looking at.

The clock.

"Sorry," John dropped his hand and went to retrieve his t-shirt. "Tomorrow, yeah?"

What? That wasn't right!

"We have dinner," he said dully and god how he hated himself for that.

"Huh? No we don't. Why would we have dinner?" John looked blank as he yanked his t-shirt back over his head.

John really was stupid at times. Sherlock took what he hoped was a deep, calming breath and looked at John pointedly.

It took a minute.

"Wait…" John looked around as if able to see for the first time, "You, this…" he closed his eyes. "I told you," he muttered, "I told you I didn't want to do Valentine's Day."

"Evidently it is Valentine's Evening you object to."

John's face went blank for a moment, then he turned and stormed into his room.

Interesting. Sherlock did up the buttons on his shirt. This was definitely not a confidence thing –

John appeared again, coat on, shoes on and jamming his wallet into his jeans pocket, where, just before it snapped closed, Sherlock could see a train ticket, slightly raised in the sleeve indicating John had just checked it was there.

John was going somewhere, pre-planned, booked and paid for on Valentine's Day evening without telling Sherlock.

Furious, Sherlock grabbed at John, trying to deduce where he was going, why he was going, who he was meeting. But fear of what might be happening was keeping him from being able to pick apart what he was seeing.

"Who are you meeting?" he demanded, still trying to see the evidence he needed.

"I told you not to do this," John hissed. "I asked you not to and you ignored me so don't you dare act as if I've been the arsehole here."

John was deliberately trying to anger him, which was irritating and worrying and infuriating.

"You are not leaving until you tell me why you are going," Sherlock demanded, feeling his control of his temper start to quake.

It was entirely the wrong thing to say.

"I do not need your fucking permission," John shouted, eyes alit with anger. "I am not your pet or your toy, you go off for days on end without asking me for permission, even though I know exactly where you are going, what you're doing to yourself so don't you dare start acting like the petty jealous boyfriend-"

"You know where I am going. I don't know where you are going," Sherlock yelled back. "This is not the same-"

"How about I assure you I'm not going to shove some dirty fucking needle in my arm or deal with people who want nothing more than to fuck me over in every possible way," John roared. "That's more than I ever get!"

Sherlock let go, stunned and watched John storm for the door and slam out of it.

* * *

What was he meant to do? He couldn't think without it, he couldn't have John with it. He couldn't protect John without it, he couldn't keep John happy with it.

Two days. He'd managed two days this time and even with that gap he couldn't work out what had happened, couldn't see why John had suddenly exploded.

He was missing something, he knew he was. He'd missed signs and indicators that usually he would have picked up on in seconds if he weren't dealing with the cravings.

It made him ache.

One more. Once more to figure this out.

* * *

It was blindingly simple once he thought about it.

John's father had died six years ago today.

* * *

John was sat by the grave in the dark by the time Sherlock arrived. Harry had clearly gotten drunk and thrown up; John had paid for a room over at the pub.

"Bad timing?" Sherlock quoted, remembering the conversation he'd listened in on when John had been at his at Christmas.

"Really bad timing," John agreed, sounding close to tears.

Softening, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John from behind, saying nothing as John wrapped his arms around where Sherlock held him, interlocking their fingers.

"Car crash," John said after a moment, "He was coming to pick me and Harry up. It was my first proper date." He coughed out a shaking laugh. "Penny Bates. I thought she was…anyway. He was hit at a crossroads."

Sherlock waited, listening to the quiet as the wind stirred the yew trees and the stone in front of them remained unmoved.

"Harry…she was so angry at him for dying. Sounds stupid doesn't it? I mean it's hardly as if he woke up that morning and planned it out in the day's agenda. But…" he turned into Sherlock, "We had to go back to Mum. Mum after divorcing our first step-father, who was a homophobic bastard. But it seems she has a type or she tried and can't get over…" John seemed to struggle for a moment.

"You should have told me."

"I…you lost your Dad not three months ago. It seemed selfish or stupid…I dunno."

"We weren't close," Sherlock said awkwardly.

"You were still upset. I know you." John squeezed his fingers. "I know it's never as clear cut as that."

Accepting that there was some truth in that, Sherlock breathed in John's smell as he pressed a kiss to the hair above his ear. "Would he have approved?"

John's silence made Sherlock stiffen. Of course it had been a stupid question-

"Of you as my friend, absolutely. You'd have made him laugh." John sighed. "He had the best laugh, one you couldn't help laughing with."

Like John's then. "But not of us dating?" Sherlock couldn't help ask.

"No," John replied eventually, "And you know why."

The drugs. The risk to John.

"I shouldn't have said that, earlier I mean. That was unfair."

"Unfair on you," It had been the truth after all. That was what John had to put up with.

John turned in his arms. "We're good until I ask right?" John said softly, "Until I ask you to stop?"

Sherlock skittered his gaze away, "I can't," he murmured. "I…tried."

A hand gripped his arm firmly, "What?" John breathed, "What do you mean you tried-"

"I have been trying," Sherlock snapped. "I can't…I can't think! I should have worked this out days ago, it was a pedestrian mystery," he pulled out of John's grasp.

"You-" John broke off with a frustrated noise, "You bloody idiot, you tried doing it on your own. Of course you can't-"

"I can't think!" Sherlock yelled suddenly furious. "If I stop, I can't see, I can't concentrate-"

"Cocaine doesn't help you think!" John yelled back. "If anything it makes you worse-"

"Withdrawal makes me worse!" Sherlock sneered. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to get clean? I won't be able to think, I won't be useful. I will not give up what I can do-"

"Stop bloody saying that," John was glaring at him now looking fiercely desperate. "So you wouldn't be able to think for a few months. So what? It's just a few months Sherlock, I'll help-"

"You know how I live my life, what I do, the people I mix with. It isn't as simple as that."

"Mycroft can-"

Sherlock snarled with hatred, "Oh yes, let's get in perfect Mycroft to save the day. I can handle this."

"Sherlock-"

"I am in control of this," Sherlock roared, as if the louder he said it the more it might be true. John stepped back eyed wide as he stood on the grave breathing heavily.

He couldn't bear to look any more.

"You're not," John said hoarsely. "You know you're not."

"I have more control like this," Sherlock stared out across the graveyard as he spoke in a monotonous tone.

John nodded, "Well, it's good to know your priorities," He said sounding hurt.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "We should go," he said, keeping his gaze from John. "The last train will leave soon and the rooms at the pub are booked up."

"Give me a minute."

Nodding, Sherlock walked down the path and waited in the shadows, watching as John turned back to the grave and stared at it for a long time. He swallowed as John leaned forward and pressed a deep firm kiss to the top of the headstone, fingers tightening around the edge the way a child gripped at its parents clothes. Uncomfortable, Sherlock turned and walked until he was at the gates of the churchyard, waiting.

John appeared soon after.

"You are my priority," Sherlock said to the quiet road as he pulled out his phone to call a taxi.

John said nothing.

"You don't believe that," Sherlock shook his head as he called the number.

"No," John sighed, "But I suppose it's enough to know that you believe it."

Something kicked at his stomach, left him unable to breathe as he stared at John who shook his head.

"I can't…can we just go home?" John asked pressing into him, sounding exhausted. "Please?"

Sherlock nodded as the Taxi company finally answered the phone.


	19. Lie still with me and watch

_I planned the story! 33 Chapters in total unless anyone wants to add any more prompts. So proud of myself; it's like I'm vaguely organised!_

* * *

_**Chapter Summary: Five months in John and Sherlock's relationship.**_

* * *

**The poem used is by ****Sara Coleridge called**** The Months. The title is also from a poem by Anne Sexton. (I'm being mega literary today!)**

**Also - i know very very little about how a medical degree is completed - I vaguely remember from my ex's sister that they do four years at uni and then I believe go into a more practical, hospital based setting. It works for my time line so if it's horrendously wrong I am sorry but we'll all just pretend that Medical degrees changed around the same time John became the younger one!**

* * *

**_February brings the rain;__  
__Thaws the frozen pond again._**

What did you say to someone who told you the reason they wouldn't stop taking drugs was because they didn't want to stop thinking?

In the three days since they'd talked John hadn't said a word to Sherlock. It wasn't out of cruelty or to make a point; John just didn't know what he was meant to say.

Was he meant to be mad, to demand Sherlock stop being such an idiot? Was he meant to understand? It was Sherlock after all; not thinking for him was like losing a limb. Was he supposed to comfort him, yell at him, threaten him?

In all honestly John just felt numb, numb because this was it. This was the reason one day they would walk away from each other and the fact that Sherlock knew that as well and couldn't make a proper effort, wouldn't let John in far enough to help, was painful.

So John ignored the phone calls, the frantic texts because he just didn't know how to respond.

He didn't even know if he wanted to.

* * *

When he woke a week later it was to Sherlock, in his room on his knees by the bed, stroking John's hand. In the moonlight he looked like a fabled fairytale character, all shadows and silvered skin, angles and smoothness.

God he missed him.

It was so quiet, so still that John found he couldn't say anything. The words needed to be perfect, needed to be right in this silent little pocket world they'd created and John wasn't good with words. If he spoke then chances were Sherlock would leave at the end of their conversation; so it seemed better not to say anything but he squeezed Sherlock's hand back.

Sherlock didn't jump or say a word. Just sat, kneeling up with his head bowed over John's hand.

"Stay," John whispered.

Sherlock turned his head up to look at John, eyes bright in the faded light. Hating the sight and hating himself for bending so easily, John shifted.

"I don't know what to do," John confessed. "I don't know how to make this okay."

Sherlock shook his head, "I function," he said fiercely. "I manage."

"You could be so much more," John said quietly.

Sherlock looked away and John forced himself to stay still, stroking at Sherlock's hand now interlaced with his.

Then a drop of water fell on their hands and John held on for dear life, knowing he was about to be swept away again.

"That is my choice to make," Sherlock said still looking away, shoulders hunched since the tear had fell; as if he expected to be mocked.

Mine. My life. John stared at their hands, thinking of Harry and the way she talked about Clara.

"Our new house."

"Our life."

"We bought the sweetest goldfish."

Strange that he and Sherlock would never have that. "Mine", "yours", "I". The words "us" and "our" and "we" were not really in Sherlock's vocabulary.

Maybe, maybe if John accepted that they would be okay. Maybe if he finally understood Sherlock Holmes might love him but would never share his life with John, they would manage to last.

Not quite able to bring himself to nod, John just scooted back instead and opened up the covers, smiling sadly as Sherlock almost threw himself into the bed and started to rearrange John in his usual dictatorial fashion.

But then Sherlock Holmes with a steady job, clean, married and spending nights curled up in front of the television laughing was not something John could really picture.

Ever.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered fiercely, ducking his head down on the pillow to see John's face.

That had never been in question. Unable to speak and lost in his doubts, John nodded.

"I'll work it out." Sherlock decided, "I'll fix it."

John closed his eyes and nodded.

* * *

**_March brings t__he wind so cold and chill;__  
__Drives the cattle from the hill._**

It was the fourth time they'd had an argument that had John's friends skulking in their rooms.

As it went though they had champion fights! Sherlock had tantrums that could blow up a hurricane while John was amazed at what could come out of his own mouth when he had enough of biting his tongue.

Oddly, it was rather freeing!

But every single time their argument would circle back to the same issue.

Sherlock would not give up the drugs even though he could see it would end them. And John would not accept that Sherlock could "cope".

"I knew this would happen," Sherlock snapped into the silence that had fallen after their latest screaming match, "I knew you would make foolish, dull demands."

"You changed us!" John said firmly as he stood by his door, arms folded. "You wanted us to be a couple. I'd accepted that we wouldn't be."

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"Fine," John threw his hands up, "Fine we'll go back then shall we? I promise to do it properly this time, maybe we could keep one of your bloody charts to check we're doing the same amount of other-"

"No," Sherlock snarled, "Absolutely not."

"Then tell me what you want!" John yelled, "Because I can't work it out."

Clearly hating the fact he was as lost as John was, Sherlock pulled a face and looked away, muttering something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I should never have told you," Sherlock repeated, louder, stronger. "We were fine before I said anything." He kicked at the sofa petulantly, "You should delete it."

Staring at the ceiling, John let out a long breath, shaking his head. "If this were the other way around you would never accept it," he said slowly.

"It is your life," Sherlock said, clearly sulking.

Somehow John restrained the urge to snort at that as he imagined Sherlock calmly accepting any decisions John made without consulting him.

"We can't keep doing this," John said, clenching his jaw and hating that his eyes felt scratchy.

The silence was deafening.

"Rules," Sherlock said suddenly, "We did that before. Ground rules to keep the boundaries of our relationship."

For a man who looked upon laws like vague guidelines, Sherlock seemed to have developed a taste for their relationship defining rules.

John looked at him, saw the desperation there and knew he would cave.

"Like?" he asked, pushing away from the doorframe and walking over to the back of the sofa which he gripped fiercely. "And so help me if they're all to your benefit!" he added warningly.

There was a flicker of a smile as Sherlock watched him. "We don't talk about it," he suggested, sitting in the armchair opposite.

"Ever?" John asked doubtfully.

Sherlock nodded. "It is pointless. We both know how the other feels about the situation. All we end up doing is going round and round in these circular arguments."

"And in return?"

Sherlock seemed startled.

"Well that benefits you," John sighed, "What do I get back?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock seemed to be unsure again now.

What did he want?

"We're in each other's lives, but we don't share it." Sherlock looked hurt but somehow John pressed on. "Going by your arguments, I should get the same. That means you stop jumping in to save me every time something goes wrong."

"But-"

"No," John glared at him, "You can't have it both ways. If I want your help I will ask and you had damn well better do the same. But you cannot just step in and take control of the situation when I'm not even allowed to talk to you about the drugs."

Sherlock took in a deep, frustrated breath as he glared at the wall.

"Which means," John added, knowing how well Sherlock did with twisting both the spirit and the letter of the law, "You do not interfere in my school, my choices, my family or my socialising."

Sherlock sneered a smile at the last.

"So when Adam comes back you say nothing."

Sherlock went absolutely rigid, then suddenly relaxed. "Fine."

"Do nothing," John continued, "and do not manipulate in any way. You act as if he were a completely uninteresting stranger. Is that clear?"

"You hit Victor-"

"Before we made this deal," John reminded him.

Sherlock swallowed. "You cannot seriously expect me to sit in the same house as him and do nothing."

"And you cannot seriously expect me to sit in my room night after night wondering if this is the night you take more than you can handle." John lifted his hands, "Yet here we are."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "As a completely dull stranger?" he repeated.

"Yes."

John could practically hear the gears turning in Sherlock's head as he worked out all the ways to get around that, but then John had probably managed to limit Sherlock as much as he would ever manage.

* * *

Within a week it was better. Still hard, but better; almost manageable.

"You aren't doing him any favours."

John turned and looked around, almost tripping up when he saw Mycroft standing by the table in the coffee shop. Mycroft inclined his head and, taking the hint, John sat where he was told.

Stirring the coffee, John sighed unhappily, "I know," he said.

"You are adding to his delusion that he doesn't have a problem."

"I know!"

Mycroft's mouth tightened, "If you left him-"

But John was already shaking his head. "I can't," he said dully staring at the coffee and putting the stirrer down. "I know all the reasons, all the logic. I've heard it a thousand times this month but…when he's standing in front of me I can't." John took a sip. "Stupid isn't it. I'm shite at the whole cruel to be kind thing."

Those formidable eyes studied him quietly. "I honestly believe you are the only one who can drag him out of this," Mycroft said slowly, "He listens to you-"

"He doesn't," John rebuked. "That's the problem. He thinks he knows best. And as I have been told, repeatedly," he said, thinking of Mike and Paul's intervention two weeks ago, "he has to do it for himself. He has to want to get clean on his own terms."

Was it his imagination or did Mycroft look disappointed?

"On the other hand I could always tell Sherlock that his drug use made me have coffee with you!" John added with a half-hearted grin, "I bet that would spur him to get clean for at least a week."

Mycroft snorted.

* * *

**_April brings us sun and showers,_**  
**_And the pretty wildwood flowers._**

"Have you started thinking about your placement?" Doctor Evans asked John as he handed him back his research paper.

John gaped at the mark. "Uh…seriously?" he asked with a grin as he looked up. "This is…good!"

Doctor Evans sighed, "John?" he said and smiled when John looked at him enquiringly, "It's a wonderful mark that you have worked hard to get. I was asking about your placement."

That was ages away…sort of.

"Um, no," John shook his head, "Next year seems ages away."

"Well it isn't," Doctor Evans said firmly, "You need to start looking and applying. You could have your pick of placement hospitals."

John couldn't stop grinning, "Wow," he breathed. "Thank you."

"Perhaps a little outside of London."

What?

"I…why?" John asked putting the paper on the table.

"There have been some concerns within the faculty...we've been hearing rumours about your other half. So far it hasn't affected your work but working at a hospital, full time is very different to being in university," Doctor Evans sighed, "We are not dictating to you John, it is your life and your decision, but perhaps a little bit of physical distance would help you in the long run while you are training."

"Rumours?" John asked carefully, "What rumours?"

"That he is difficult. Demanding." Doctor Evans met John's eyes. "Addicted."

John careened between fury and gratefulness, standing utterly still as he tried to decide which emotion was stronger.

"You have developed over the past year beyond expectation. Whether that is his influence or not, clearly something had helped you along. But you are still young and you are placing yourself in a very difficult situation. All I am saying is that you can make it a little easier on yourself."

* * *

"What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked as he wandered into John's room

"Hospitals," John looked up and did a double take, "Is that a jug of custard?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a tone that clearly indicated he didn't see that was anything unusual. "Why are you looking at hospitals?"

"Placements," John replied, "Doctor 'I like to shove my nose in other people's business' told me I should start looking."

Sherlock suddenly looked pleased. "I know at least three Doctors that can be blackmailed," he offered.

John laughed, "Only three?"

"It's been a slow year."

Sherlock put the jug down, "Ah, no!" John said looking up again, "If you put it there it will stay there, get green and then you'll start nagging at me to clean my room."

Sherlock nodded and pointedly left the jug where it was.

Shaking his head John shifted over in case Sherlock wanted to sit. "Out of curiosity," he said, "How would you feel about…" he broke off suddenly, unsure if he should even bother asking.

But not finishing a sentence with Sherlock was like blood to a shark. "What?" Sherlock tilted his head, eyes scanning. "Why on earth would you leave London?" he asked sounding taken aback.

"Just something Dr Evans said," John replied, trying to keep his tone light.

"Ah, hence the earlier slur." Sherlock sat on the bed, "I…" he looked away, "May I offer my opinion?" he asked seconds later, mouth pinched in disapproval at the necessity of the question.

"Why wouldn't you be able to?" John asked.

"Rules."

Ah. Those.

"Go for it," John said, looking down.

"You should stay in London. The hospitals here tend to attract the best Doctors; therefore it would be idiotic to move. Besides you would have to get a flat share and it could prove to be distracting if you didn't get on with them."

"If you didn't get on with them when you came to visit."

Sherlock pulled a face, "That too. I simply do not understand why any of your lecturers would suggest-"

John stared at the screen resolutely.

"I wouldn't," Sherlock said after a moment. "I never have. I do not come here when you have work to do, I do not disturb you when you have exams. I help, I ensure you eat properly and don't forget things."

John smiled, "I know. But this isn't like the other years. This would be constant."

* * *

During his week of exams John woke up to a bought breakfast every day and a steaming mug of tea. His keys, which he could never usually find, where always hooked over the door handle no matter how messy his room got. Sherlock would greet him at some point in the day with fruit, muttering something about pirates and scurvy and would usually hunt him down in the evenings, drag him out for food and quiz him on his exam content.

"You really are actually kind of sweet," John murmured into Sherlock's shoulder just after midnight after his last day of exams.

"Stay," Sherlock nuzzled at his cheek.

* * *

John was second from top of the class.

Sherlock demanded a copy of everyone's paper and Mike just rolled his eyes.

* * *

**_May brings grass and leafy trees,_**  
**_Waving in each gentle breeze._**

"Fuck me, there's actual solid ground under this!" Andy gaped as he pulled out the overgrown weeds. "Did we know this?"

John grinned as he sat on the front door step, sucking on an ice-lolly happily. "Nah, you're having us on," he teased.

"Definitely," Paul agreed, "You're probably just standing on the multiple bodies of the poor creatures that climbed in our garden to die!"

Andy flipped them the finger. "You could help," he complained, "The Landlord wants this done before he comes over."

Paul shook his head. "I'm waiting for Mike to come back with the gloves. I'm not risking dying from that stuff."

Andy huffed and looked at John who sucked at the lolly pointedly. "I can't," he grinned, "I'm eating." Then laughed as Andy flailed about with the long flowery-weedy thing that was almost as tall as he was.

"Gonna miss this place," Paul sighed looking back at the house. "Sucks! Bloody Adam getting a job!"

Privately John agreed. "Bloody Adam," he nodded.

Andy gave him a funny look but said nothing. "We so should have found someone else to take your room," he said to Paul, "I love this place."

"Mike reckons he and Kirsty will move in together," John shook his head, "How mental is that? Sounds way too…serious."

Andy nodded, "Creepy bastard," he added, kicking at the overgrown bush. "She could have moved in here and into Paul's room."

"You do understand that Mike would have insisted you actually get dressed before you leave your room?"

Andy pulled a face, "She could have just not looked!"

John laughed and then grinned as he spotted Sherlock, who was approaching their front garden as if a bomb was about to go off. "Hey!"

Sherlock ignored him and stared between Andy and the grass, seemingly baffled.

"It's fucking Adam's fault!" Andy announced, "Do I look like a gardener to you?"

It was worrying how Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Adam?"

"My brother," Paul answered, oblivious. "He has a job but needs a flatmate so I'm moving in with him."

"You're cleaning?" Sherlock said doubtfully, looking at all three of them.

John nodded, watching him closely, but as ever Sherlock was meticulous at hiding whatever it was he'd been up to in the last week he'd been incommunicado. "Want one?" he asked holding out the lolly.

Sherlock just took his and John glared up then grinned as Sherlock caught sight of the living room and stepped over John and Paul to explore.

"You mess it up you're cleaning it!" Andy yelled after him then looked at John. "So I guess it's gonna be just me and you! Unless you want Sherlock-"

John shook his head quickly and stood to fight for his lolly-pop.

* * *

"You're moving?" Sherlock seemed to be staring at the kitchen as if in shock.

To be fair, John could understand the reaction. Who knew their counters had been a light blue? Or that their floor actually had a pattern?

"Yeah," John plucked the lolly from Sherlock's fingers, "Looks like it will just be me and Andy moving in together next year. We'll probably do another flat share."

Sherlock said nothing but some strange expression passed over his face, gone before John really knew what to make of it.

* * *

That night Adam came by after he and Paul had spent the day looking at flats.

It was so strange; John had spent so much time scolding and pulling Sherlock back for the past few months that he hadn't really thought about how he'd deal with it; how odd it would feel to be standing in the kitchen with someone who may or may not have intended to take full advantage of John's drunken state.

"John-" Adam started to say.

But suddenly Andy was there, opening a cupboard that effectively cut Adam from John's sight. "So Adam , got a job then?" Andy said as he stared up at the cupboard that was filled with their newly acquired cleaning products.

"Uh, yeah-"

"That's cool. John you got any tuna?"

"No." John stared at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Huh, you sure? Check your room." Andy suggested.

Hidden from Adam by the door John glared at Andy, "Why?" he mouthed.

"Sherlock," Andy mouthed back. "And this fucker."

John glared at the ceiling. "He told you?" he hissed quietly.

"Uh…is everything allright?" Paul asked, "What the hell are you two doing?"

Huffing, John ducked under the cupboard door, twisting so he didn't have to touch Adam as he squeezed by and nodded at Paul.

* * *

"You flinched," Sherlock hissed as John closed his door behind him. "I saw you, when he came close, you flinched."

"Don't push it," John snapped, "or we will have a conversation about your shakes the weekend before last."

Sherlock stared at the door as if the force of his gaze could drill a hole through the wood and kill Adam in an instant. Then, with a growl, he spun, gathering up his coat.

"Don't leave," John winced at how pathetic that sounded.

Sherlock froze.

"We broke the lock while cleaning," John stared at the wall hating himself for being so…scared he supposed. "I…please."

Sherlock shook his head and looked at the door. "If he comes into the room I will react accordingly, rules or no," he said frankly.

Miserable John nodded.

Slowly Sherlock put the coat down and walked over to him and kissed him lightly, his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. Tiny, gentle kisses that made John lean forward and bury his head in Sherlock's shoulder and grab at his shirt.

"It's stupid," John whispered, "It was ages ago. It was nothing. I don't know why-"

Under him Sherlock was coiled so tightly tense that John worried he would snap something.

"I thought…I didn't think he'd look at me like that anymore."

Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, "Moron though he is, his taste is faultless," Sherlock said after a moment.

John laughed, "You're biased."

"I'm never biased," Sherlock dismissed as he slipped a hand under John's t-shirt, watching him steadily.

John bit his lip. "Can…could we…" God, how stupid was it that he had to ask? "I want-"

Sherlock covered his mouth with his own, long deep possessive kisses that made John's toes tingle.

* * *

That night Sherlock was sweet and gentle as he straddled John and sank onto him, strangely careful to not pin his wrists or play any of his usual games; the ones that made John scream and beg and writhe.

And afterwards he pulled John close, keeping himself between as a barrier to the door as if John's insane worry might actually happen.

But John couldn't work out how to ask why it was that, despite all they had now done together (and some of it was pretty damned kinky and weird and funny) why Sherlock had never been on top and why he seemed to ignore every hint to the contrary.

* * *

**_June brings roses, fresh and fair,_**  
**_And the cherries ripe and rare._**

Twenty one.

He was twenty one years of age and utterly shit faced.

It was the absinthe challenge that had done it, then the sudden need for a drink to quench the burning throat which meant more and more drink had to go down his neck.

He had promised Gay Alf he'd swing by Back Door later on so, when everyone else was too wrecked to protest, John snuck off.

It was great fun, everyone he met was so happy and friendly; possibly because he was trying to balance on the edge of the pavement, using the stones there as a balancing beam and failing miserably to stay in a straight line while humming "I'm a little teapot" which had been stuck in his head since Andy started screeching it at the top of his lungs earlier.

Words were fun.

"Gay Alf!" he cried happily as he spotted his friend smoking by the wall of the club. "I'm balancing really well!"

Gay Alf grinned and flicked the ash from his cigarette. "You are wankered!" he announced gleefully. "Jesus, you're lucky you made it here alive."

"I know. I might have fallen into the road!" John said staring at the two inches he had often tumbled down. "I want to dance," he announced.

Gay Alf sighed, "I think you should come dancing tomorrow," he said soothingly, still grinning as he pulled out his phone. "You go home now and sleep this off."

John shook his head and stumbled when the world spun. "Oh my God, the world moved. That's 'cause it's my birthday!"

Gay Alf nodded, "Yeah, that's the reason. Not the fact that you drunk enough to start a small ocean."

John looked around confused, "'snot wet, it's June."

"Hey, you close to the club? Got something of yours that looks like he's dunked himself in a tequila bottle." Gay Alf said into the phone.

"Blugh," John said screwing up his nose, "It was disgusting," he added, feeling the need to warn Gay Alf.

"Yeah," Gay Alf took a drag, "Okay," he hung up the call. "So…how was your night?"

John nodded, "Andy bought me a drink," he whispered. "And then ten more."

"No kidding," Gay Alf blew out chuckling puffs of smoke.

* * *

Sherlock walked up the road about five minutes later, a strange look on his face.

"You," John said circling his finger in what he assumed was probably roughly the right direction. "You I want to shag."

Gay Alf snorted.

"Because…you are…a man."

"Glowing recommendation there, Sherlock!" Gay Alf nodded.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring Gay Alf.

"Here!" John answered brightly.

"Before that?"

"There," John pointed away from the club.

"JOHN!"

John shrugged, "between here and there?" he offered hopefully. "I think I went a very strange route."

Sherlock pulled him close, almost shaking with something.

John turned in his grasp, "Gay Alf," he stage whispered, "I think he needs cocaine. You go find some."

Sherlock shook his head fiercely, gripping John firmly by the neck. "You just vanished," he breathed sounding small.

"I came here."

"And it took you two hours."

"Nooo," John looked at Gay Alf who nodded slowly. "Really? Fuck that was a bad route!"

Sherlock's shoulders shook and he nodded minutely against John's shoulders. When he looked up his face was damp.

John looked up; he'd been pretty sure it hadn't been raining. "It's bloody June," he complained.

"How the hell did you manage to walk here in this state?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I balanced!" John said, spilling his trade secret.

* * *

When John woke up it was to a thumping head and a bucket by the side of the bed. Someone was stroking his hair.

"I'm gonna kill Andy," John muttered not daring to move an inch.

Sherlock stroked the side of John's neck with the back of his fingers. "Taken care of," he replied.

"Literally?"

"Not quite."

"Oh my god," John pushed into the pillow, "I don't even remember anything after the second pub. Other than Andy screeching at me to down things."

The hand on his neck stopped stroking, "No?"

John risked turning over and stared at Sherlock's bloody lip. "Oh. How the hell did you get that?"

"You'd disappeared by the time I arrived," Sherlock's hands were tracing his cheek now. "No-one knew where you'd gone."

"My phone-"

"You dropped it." Sherlock swallowed, "There had been a fight down the street, both parties taken to hospital in critical condition," he looked away shaking his head. "I thought-"

"Shit," John breathed turning to him. "I'm so sorry…"

Sherlock just shook his head.

"Did you punch Andy?"

"Yes. But only because he dragged me away from the plebeian paramedic who wouldn't release the names of the injured parties."

John stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair, trying to calm him down. "Uh…where was I then?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Walking to Back Door in the most convoluted route known to man, singing nursery rhymes apparently."

John winced, "Smooth eh?"

Sherlock remained silent.

* * *

"Are you going to be quiet all day?" John asked five hours later when he felt halfway human and had been severely lectured at by everyone who knew him, including oddly Mycroft, who had primly informed John that he had not been impressed. "Not that I can complain about anything for the next five years apparently, but it would be nice to know."

Sherlock didn't move.

Not willing to have an argument, or sure his head would survive it, John shrugged and started to flick through the phone magazines Paul had brought back with him to look for a new phone.

"I'm sorry."

Hell had frozen over. Or he'd died from alcohol poisoning and was in heaven.

Slowly, as if dealing with a timid, wild animal, John lowered the magazine. "Uh…did you just say-"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated louder.

"I think that's my phrase after last night."

Sherlock shook his head, "That's what I put you through, every time you know I'm out with a dealer. That's what I put you through."

Putting the magazine down, John sighed, "Probably not to quite that extent."

"You watch the news, read the news in the morning. How many times have you seen a drugs deal reported that went wrong or something similar?"

John shook his head, "I don't look for them," anymore.

Sherlock heard the unsaid word all the same. "You are the bravest person I know," he said quietly. "To do that all this time."

John clenched his fist, working out how he was meant to navigate this conversation. "You're worth it," he said simply, sure that was the wrong thing to say.

But Sherlock's pale eyes watched him the rest of the day thoughtfully.

* * *

That night and every night that Sherlock didn't come to his, John would get a text. Just one word that would come through at different times each night and there would only be one like it.

Safe.

And, no matter what John was doing the next day he always kept his phone loud so he could hear the message alert because his sleep was always better afterwards.

* * *

**The return of drunk John. Oh how I have missed writing him ;)**

**Next Chapters:**

"How it begins" - Sherlock annoys someone new and John has to deal with the consequence.

"No favours" - Andy's lack of funds means John needs to find somewhere to stay for a few months...

"May you always." - Another outsiders perpective - Violet Holmes, Mike Stamford, John's mother and Mycoft Holmes again.


	20. And so it begins

Chapter Summary : Sherlock annoys someone new and John has to deal with the consequence.

And yes, three of you were spot on and I sort of lied a bit when I said the next outsiders perspective would be in a few chapters time.

Enjoy! :D

* * *

And so it begins…

University Year Three - 24th June

**Greg Lestrade**

It had been a long shift and, to top it off, there had been a grisly murder which Greg had picked up on within the last half hour.

The man had been called William Jameson and he was twenty years old, beaten to death with blunt force trauma.

Poor kid.

There had been a crowd forming (bloody vultures) and, in a filthy mood, Greg had stormed over intending to scare and guilt them into looking away. The problem was, once he finished his grouchy detective rant at them all, one stayed exactly where he was and looked bored by the whole thing.

"I told you to clear off."

"Yes." The man nodded, "But I live over there," he pointed.

"Go around," Greg snapped.

"No." The man rolled his eyes, "I am not adding an extra twenty minutes to my journey time." And with that he ducked under the tape.

Greg floundered, stunned for a moment and looked over at the Inspector helplessly, who had seemingly heard the conversation but was even more shattered than Greg was and just shook his head and gave Greg a pointed look.

Which, translated, meant "keep an eye on him and just let it go".

The man stopped halfway across the road, and paused to stare down at the body. Watching him, Greg had a sudden moment of guilt. Members of the public shouldn't have to see that sort of thing. But, when he walked forward to take the man's elbow and gently lead him away the man tilted his head sharply to one side.

Then turned around, looking up at the flats above.

"I assume you're about to arrest the occupier of the flat up there? Fourth along and third up."

Humouring him Greg nodded, "Sure. You need to get moving-"

Pale eyes narrowed and flickered to all the key components again before refocusing on Greg. "The murder weapon was a wooden bar from a window box. All but three of the flats above have one. The window box from directly above is rotten, first in on the top level was painted before its removal, which leaves the one I just pointed out to you."

Greg frowned at him and then stared down at the body, wondering if he was just that tired that he'd missed what was apparently an obvious clue or whether the man in front of him was just the local nutter. "And you know it was a window box because?"

With an exasperated sigh the man strode forward and Greg barely managed to yank him back before he touched the body and ruined the evidence for court.

Seemingly insulted at the touch, the man yanked his arm out of Greg's grip and studied him for a moment.

"Oh," he said sounding disappointed, "You missed it. All of it." He glanced over at the body, "After all if you've missed the fact that your wife is suffering from post-natal depression then of course-"

It had been a long shift.

But grabbing the bastard by the scruff of the neck and shaking him was probably not the best idea in the world. Jason Ellis yanked Greg backwards before he could do any real damage.

"Cool off," he hissed in Greg's ear as someone else pulled the arrogant bugger away.

"Wait," Declan said squinting at Greg's pain in the arse. He suddenly flashed a light in the pale eyes with a frown. "He's high."

* * *

The phone wouldn't stop ringing. Refusing to move John just unwound an arm from the sheet he was sort of using and patted around for the phone.

"Mm?" he asked as he put the object to his ear.

"Is this Mr John Watson?"

"Sure," John agreed, almost certain he could get back to sleep now that the ringing had stopped.

"Do you know a Sherlock Holmes?"

Ah yes, his git of a boyfriend who had texted … John opened his eyes to check the clock, thirty minutes ago? Jesus, he could sleep quickly. John groaned into the phone. "If I say no can I go back to sleep?" he asked, pretty sure that in that time Sherlock couldn't possibly have come to any harm.

Though it was Sherlock.

There was a pause. "He's been thrown in the cells to cool off."

"Okay," John said, still half asleep.

"I need you to pick him up."

Pick him up? If that bloody git had been fibbing with those texts about being home safe, John was going to kill him, "Fine, what club are you?" John huffed.

"Club?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded genuinely confused, "Mr Watson, this is the police."

Fuck sakes!

* * *

Sherlock Holmes. Strange name, but it fit, somehow.

Greg wasn't exactly sure what he'd been expecting after the phone call to John Watson, probably another addict, but the sleepy eyed kid that turned up looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed was not it.

"You called him? Why did you call him?" Sherlock Holmes said sounding a little on edge.

"He was in your call history the most," Greg shrugged as he pulled out the paper work. "For your fine Mr Holmes."

Sherlock just stared down at the papers as if repulsed. Then turned to the kid who was clearly trying to use the top of the reception desk as a pillow, "You do it," he said imperiously.

John Watson just flipped him the finger then buried his head in the crook of his elbow. "G'way," he mumbled. "I hate you."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock Holmes just picked up the pen and papers on the clipboard and for a moment Greg relaxed.

Until the nutter tried to slide the clipboard under the kid's arm and put the pen in his hand. The kid stirred, glared and stood up straighter, flipping through the pages with a sigh.

"Let's see. Name: Dickhead, first name: Massive!" Greg watched as the kid started to write on the page.

A look showed that John Watson was actually writing down Holmes, Sherlock, which was fine.

"Occupation: Idiot," John added calmly. "Address: Long suffering boyfriend's sofa."

"Partner," Sherlock corrected sounding as if he'd done this many times before.

They were together? Greg studied the pair not quite sure if he'd have put them together.

"Fill out the form yourself then," John threatened. "Next of kin: "Mycroft Holmes, in big, big letters to show how much you love him."

"You." Sherlock was peering around the wall at the detainees waiting in the reception, his eyes darting over them.

"And Violet Holmes," John was continuing, "Long suffering angelic family."

Sherlock glared heavenward for a moment and then returned to his staring.

"Ooh," John said, twisting around and smiling at Greg, "This is a good one. Reason for fine and amount of fine." He looked over at Sherlock, "Go on then, light of my life; what did we do today?"

"You really shouldn't have woken him," Sherlock glared over John's head at Greg. "He's beyond irritable in the morning."

"Drug use," Greg said and inwardly sighed when John didn't look at all surprised, "But no possession though."

John nodded and started to write this time in silence. Sherlock's face screwed up a little and he glared at the people around the corner.

"You use?" Greg asked quietly, reaching out for the numbers at the desk for anonymous groups, but John shook his head.

"Christ no," the kid said, "I'm training to be a doctor. That would be my career up in flames."

Greg looked over at Sherlock and John followed his gaze, "Don't get me started," John said with a sigh. "And those will not work with him, believe me," he said, catching sight of the cards.

"There are groups for families and friends affected by drug use," Greg offered, "If you need it."

"He doesn't," Sherlock snapped.

John ignored the pair of them. "Here," he said handing the paper over to Sherlock, "I would sign it for you but then we'd both be thrown downstairs for fraud."

"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock muttered, taking the pen. "I wouldn't be thrown downstairs."

John shrugged and leaned back on the desk, "Do they have beds?" he asked grumpily, "'cause that's a bloody tempting idea right about now."

"You put down Mother and Mycroft," Sherlock snarled.

"Cause they're your next of kin!" John looked at Greg beseechingly. "Tell him to get on with it, take me home and make me tea."

"Mr Holmes," Greg tried to nudge him along. "Your signature."

But Sherlock was focused on the form, "You are aware you don't actually need this chicken scratch scrawl to be a doctor?"

"Okay," John said, sounding for the world like someone who would say anything just to get some sleep.

"Occupation?" Sherlock slammed the form down. "Unemployed?" he snarled disbelievingly.

John looked at him wide eyed, then glanced at Greg, "What else was I meant to put?" he asked, sitting up.

Greg leaned back and reached for the cuffs with a sigh. "Is he a dealer?" he asked John.

"No!" The pair of them spared him a seconds glance as Sherlock sounded as if the idea was beneath him and John sounded horrified. "I gamble."

"Legally!" John interjected with a yelp.

This was not going to be worth it. Greg released his hold on the cuffs, acknowledging that it would never go further than an arrest and would eat into what was already a very long shift.

Looking thunderous, Sherlock signed the papers and then peeled out the money from his wallet, tossing it on top of the paper.

"That's a lot of cash," Greg muttered pulling it all over and gave John a pointed look.

John nodded, seemingly completely missing the hint that it took quite some illegal activity to come up with that kind of cash.

"Out of curiosity," Greg said as he ran the money through to give Sherlock a receipt seeing as it looked like Linda, the usual one for this, wouldn't be back any time soon. "That stuff you were saying about the window box and the murder. You were just full of it right?"

"This is our police force," Sherlock muttered to John with a wave of his hand, "Comforting isn't it?"

John eyed him up and then looked at Greg, "What do you mean?"

"He claimed he solved a murder within two minutes of being on the scene."

John seemed thoughtful. "Window box?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the counter, "Blunt force trauma, but cuts and scrapes so it had to be an uneven surface, sharp in places. There were small splinters around the body and the deeper holes which would indicate the object was old wood and still had nails in it. There were flower beds in the flats above; all of them had one and those that didn't could be explained away apart from one. If the killer wasn't in the flat then there will at least be evidence there. It seems more likely that the murderer is the occupier though, only someone living there would have known how easy it was to pull the wooden board off; otherwise it would have been a foolish attempt to even reach for the board."

Sherlock sounded as if it was the most boring thing imaginable and John's mouth had dropped slightly.

"Come," Sherlock turned on his heel. "John!"

With an apologetic shrug, John followed.

Still stunned Greg sat for a moment before with a jerky hand he dialled down to the DS still down in the morgue.

"That body, the wounds…are there any splinters or indications of it being pierced by a nail?"

"Uh…I'll check…" there was a pause, "Yeah. Bloody filthy as well, Greg."

Holy mother of Christ.

* * *

John ran down the steps, sure he had lost Sherlock until a hand reached out and grabbed him, pulling him into the shadows to snog him senseless.

"I can't believe you did that," John gasped when Sherlock finally pulled away. "It's unbelievable."

"Yes well," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, "In hindsight it wasn't the best idea to walk through a police squad while high."

"I," John shook his head, "I wasn't talking about that you berk!" he said, swatting at Sherlock, "I was talking about you solving a murder investigation like that."

"It was simple," Sherlock complained.

John laughed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. "Brilliant," he argued. "Did you see the Sergeant's face?"

That earned him a smile, "Yes." Sherlock looked rather smug. "He did look rather impressed, didn't he?"

John grinned and then walloped him over the head, "Do not text me until you are in the flat and your front door is shut!"

* * *

_AN: That chapter may have been a little lighter than the summary suggested! ;)_

* * *

Slight change to next chapters:

**"No favours"** - Andy's lack of funds means John needs to find somewhere to stay for a few months...

**"Safe"** - John has an interesting chat with Gay Alf.

"**May you always."** - Another outsiders perpective - Violet Holmes, Mike Stamford, John's mother and Mycoft Holmes again.

**"Adjustments."**

And it would appear we are now up to thirty five chapters in total. I suck at keeping to plans (or rather I refuse to put out a chapter that goes way over 6000 words so they are being split up!)


	21. No Favours

Thank you so much to everyone for reading this still! I really must get into the habit or replying when I first read the reviews because I have completely lost where I'm up to - why can't ff make it really clear? I will get to you all I promise, but if i do miss you out it's a clerical error! :P

* * *

Chapter Summary:

Andy's lack of funds means John needs to find somewhere to stay for a few months but Sherlock seems to be off somewhere…else!

* * *

**No Favours**

**July**

"So Andy's still looking for a job?" Gay Alf asked.

"Yeah," John shook his head, "Sucks. He reckons he should be able to come back in a month or so when he's found a job and we can look for a flat share then."

"So what are you gonna do?"

"Get a job," John screwed his face up a little at the idea. "I dunno. If I can't find anything then I might have to stay with Harry for a while and just find somewhere without Andy."

Gay Alf seemed to be weighing something up, "You good with any job?"

"Not fussy at all!" John took a sip, "Beggars can't be choosers right?"

Gay Alf held up a hand, "I might have an idea."

* * *

Andy stared at John. "That's awesome!" he said sounding delighted, "Shit, it was looking like we weren't gonna be living together."

"Well you need to get your arse into gear – we only have two more weeks before our rent runs out here." John couldn't help the proud smile. "Mike said I could crash at his. I think I'll just be sofa surfing for a month or so."

"I'm looking!" Andy threw his hands up in supplication. "So how did Sherlock take the news that he's dating Back Door's newest barman?"

John shifted, "Uh…well…"

"You haven't told him yet?"

"No," John said, "He's been off on one of his benders for the past few days."

Clicking his tongue Andy stood up, "Well, you'd best tell him quickly, before you start your first shift. You don't want to get fired if he causes a scene."

"Why would he? It's a job!"

Andy hissed, "Mate, the few times I've been wankered enough to let you drag me there I've seen what the bar tenders put up with from some of those guys. Mainly because it's a weird experience to have bar tenders talk to you because they know you ain't gonna be trying to grab at them. It's a free for all."

John snorted, "Don't be daft; it's not like that in there."

"Yeah, because you stick with Gay Alf and his mates. Plus you practically have 'property of Sherlock Holmes' tattooed on your forehead."

John chucked a stolen bar mat at him, that they'd been using as coasters since they'd tidied the place up. "Whatever, then I'll still have that tattooed on my head."

Andy shot him a dubious look. "If you say so."

"Besides, I'm not some bloody damsel in distress, despite what you and Sherlock seem to think. I can handle it."

"Sure, sure…"Andy flicked the kettle on and stared at John, "But, just some advice?"

This was getting really annoying. "Sure," John said in a dull tone.

"You remember second year, right at the beginning when we could handle our drink well enough to stay until the end of the night? Before you and Sherlock hooked up?"

"Yes," John said, not really sure where Andy was going with this.

"'Cause you haven't been to a club until the end for ages. You're usually off at about one to go and find boy-toy or go home so you can actually do something the next day."

"Andy, is there a point-"

"So the last hour or so before kick out, you remember what it's like? People get desperate for a hook-up? They start getting a bit pushier."

Vaguely.

"And the bar staff are usually the only ones by that point who still have their wits and a nice smile because they want drunk people to tell them to keep the change."

"Yeah?"

"John, you're pretty much gonna be like a bargirl at the end of the night. The one with a sweet smile and who's been lovely all night. You are gonna get hit on come closing."

"I told you I can handle it!" John was starting to get pissed off now.

"Not saying you can't. Just…know what you're getting into, that's all I'm saying."

* * *

_Hey. Not to nag or anything but will you be by soon? I got a new job and just wanted to let you know. JW_

_Sherlock? You ok? JW_

_Is Sherlock ok? JW_

_New dealer. I believe he is indulging. MH._

Great.

* * *

"So, you know how to pull a pint?"

Back Door was empty and weirdly quiet. It looked really shitty in the day time, all chipped paint and old surfaces, but there was something about the place that had character.

"No," John said, knowing it was so uncool how much he was enjoying being on the other side of the bar. All the glasses were stocked up underneath and above and it was amazing how many different kinds there were.

"Well," Gay Alf said, pulling a pint glass down, "I told the Boss you'd worked at a pub before so you better pick this up quick," he grinned at John. "Hold the glass at an angle."

Okay…John looked at Gay Alf for approval as he tilted the glass.

"Flick the tap. Now if it comes out foam, which it usually does if the tap hasn't been used for a while, you need to let the foam go, otherwise it'll just fuck up your pint, so pour what you have into the drip tray and wait for it to go clear, then whack the glass back in at an angle again."

John did as he was told.

"You want a head on the top, especially here otherwise you're gonna get a fuck load of jokes about not giving head! So flick the tap backwards a little, hold onto it and foam will start to come out. Just top it up a bit and there you go." Gay Alf nodded, "Pretty good for a first timer!"

John grinned, admiring his handy work. "Cool."

Gay Alf nodded and set the pint down, walking John over to the optics. "You've seen this enough times, just get a glass, push the edge up and it'll give you a measure. Make sure you're paying attention, some of the optics work differently to others."

John nodded. "Got it."

"Uh…what else…mixers. Use the dash for coke and lemonade that way people can't bitch at you about how strong or weak you make it as it's a set measure. We'll have a session with you on the cocktails."

John took a nervous look at the bottles sat in the middle of the bar that held some of the more unusual types of alcohol for cocktails. "Okay," he breathed.

"Oh and…" Gay Alf opened up the fridge. "Open the bottle." He ordered pulling out a Peroni.

John flicked the bottle against the opener on the side of the bar with ease, "No problems with that."

"Cool. Put the lid back on."

Huh?

Seeing his look, Gay Alf grabbed the bottle and the metal lid, balanced the lid back on and then thumped down with the palm of his hand. "In case you make a mistake or mishear. That way no waste and no flat beer!"

John nodded, "That's kinda cool!"

Gay Alf shook his head in amusement, "Sure, I guess."

"So how often do you work here? I've never really seen you behind the bar."

"Just every so often when they're short. I used to work here full time once upon a," Alf tugged at John. "Rotas are kept here," he said tapping on the wall by the bar. "You can't work a shift you tell the Boss, but he's a tetchy git at times so pick your battles. Stock room is here," he said tapping on a door as they walked down the hall. "Toilets here, you've already seen the office," he winked at John as they went downstairs.

Oh yeah…wow that seemed like a million years ago.

"Cool room," Gay Alf opened the door and then dragged a barrel in.

"Need a hand with that?"

"Nah, it's empty." He pointed to an old pipe in the corner, "And that's not hooked up to anything. You need to know how to change a barrel. You can probably get away with not knowing how to change the gas."

John took a deep breath and listened carefully.

* * *

The first night behind the bar was hectic. John wanted to crawl under the counter and hide at one point when the bar was three deep and he had to keep getting someone to help with the cocktails.

"You okay?" Gay Alf shouted to him once the queues had died down.

"It gets easier right?"

Gay Alf nodded, "Yeah. You'll get the hang of it. Trial by fire John, it's the best way of learning."

* * *

It took three shifts for Boss to keep him on until the end of the night. And Andy couldn't have been more right. Once John settled into it and didn't look so horrendously flustered, the pick-ups started.

"So you're a fan of the back door?" one guy asked, leaning over the bar as John made a shot called a blowjob.

Whoever had named the shot needed to be killed!

"Yeah," John smiled, nodding. "It's fun."

The guy's grin spread, "You like going in or opening up?"

Huh?

"We are talking about the club right?" John said as he finished making up the shots, the bar sticky from his pouring.

"Mate, you do know why the place is called Back Door, don't you?"

"I…"

OH!

John gaped, knowing he was blushing.

"So," the guy seemed pleased as punch as he paid for the drinks, "You like going up back doors or holding your own open?"

John opened his mouth a few times. "I'm seeing someone," he managed suddenly, knowing it didn't really follow the conversation.

"So am I!" The guy winked. "Catch you later."

Oh god. John stared after him and then moved on, trying not to laugh and shake his head.

* * *

"You smell like a fucking brewery," Mike said closing up his bag as John stumbled in. "You been out all night?"

John nodded, "Shutters wouldn't go down. Had to stay. Sleep now," he managed to say.

"John?" Mike stood up, "Uh…can we have a chat?"

Yawning John nodded, "I'll need a mountain of coffee if it's gonna be serious."

Mike winced and put the kettle on.

* * *

"Just for a week or two. It'll be weird enough for me and Kirsty living together at first without-"

"Without me snoring on your couch. I get it Mike!" John shrugged, "It's fine. I'll crash at Gay Alf's and Paul had some space on his floor."

Mike pulled a face, "With Adam?" he said doubtfully.

"Fucking hell, does everyone know about that?" John hissed, sitting back and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Look, it'll just be two weeks or so right? And I'm earning now. Worse case I'll crash at a bedsit or something."

Mike still looked wretchedly guilty, "Kirsty and I feel really bad about this…maybe once a week would be fine-"

"Mike! If I'm desperate I'll call," John smiled.

"That's a lie."

The smile fell from John's face. "Excuse me?" he said, sure he'd heard that wrong.

"You never ask!" Mike shook his head, "Ever!" He sat back, "Kirsty goes to some evening class once a week. I'll talk to her, maybe we can have it like a night apart or something, the class is by her Dad's house."

John put the coffee down slowly. "Mike, that's really nice of you but I'm not your concern. You're right, you and Kirsty need some adjustment time-"

"John? Shut up!" Mike stood, "And just do as you're told for once."

John stared at the wall and sighed. "Thank you," he said eventually. "And if it does cause problems-"

"We'll figure it out."

* * *

Everything was in boxes now, apart from clothes that John chucked into a suitcase with one or two medical journals and his laptop, charger and phone charger. And shoes. He stared at it for a moment, trying to decide if he needed anything else.

It would have to do.

The house was pretty much packed up now, it was sad seeing it like this, empty and clean. John was even going to miss Kenny, who he'd sort of formed an unwilling truce with (especially since Kenny practically had lived at his girlfriend's for the past year).

It felt a bit like the end of something.

_What the hell is Sherlock doing? JW_

_I have asked him that repeatedly. MH._

John tapped his phone on the side of the counter and shook his head. It had now been two weeks since he'd seen Sherlock and all he got from him was a bloody text message every night with the word "Safe".

"You good for me to drive this to the storage unit?" Paul asked, wandering into his room and looking at all the boxes.

"Yeah," John slid his phone into his pocket. "Sure, yeah, I'll help you load it up."

* * *

"You should come and crash at mine," Paul said as they drove back. "I don't get why you don't want to."

"I…" John stared out the window, "Sherlock has this thing against Adam. It seems a bit unfair to do that to you both," he lied, hating himself for doing it.

"I wasn't inviting Sherlock," Paul glanced in the mirror as he turned down the road.

"Yeah, well you know what Sherlock's like with doors and locks. He thinks they're a gold plated invitation!"

Paul shook his head, "I don't get why you put up with him. I mean look at this John, you're pretty much homeless and he's meant to be your boyfriend. Where is he?"

John clamped down on his tongue. "Don't," he said firmly, "Just drop it Paul."

"I…" Paul glared at the road. "You know Adam likes you, don't you?" he said slowly.

John couldn't help the snort and saw Paul shoot a curious glance between him and the road.

"What's that meant to mean?" Paul asked sounding defensive. "He's a good guy, just because Sherlock is all mysterious and older does not mean he's better than Adam."

"Yeah, they aren't the reasons why he is," John snapped.

Paul glared at him, then flicked the indicator on, pulling over. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, turning in his seat to John.

"Forget it," John said glaring out at the road.

"John!"

Unable to believe this was happening, John stared at the dashboard, wondering exactly what it was he'd done in a prior life to deserve all this. "Christmas," he said woodenly. "I came back drunk and Adam hit on me."

"While you were drunk," Paul pulled a face. "I am sorry John, he's been pining over you-"

"He tried to…" All the words to describe it seemed far too dramatic. "He was pushing for a lot more than just a snog."

Paul was silent. "Meaning?"

John shook his head, shaking the mood away, "I dunno. It's really blurry. You know what I'm like when I'm hammered, oblivious to everything," he tried to grin as he glanced over at Paul who looked deathly pale. "Paul, it was nothing okay? Sherlock just…you know what he's like."

Paul stared at him for the longest time then nodded, slowly turning the car back on and pulling out into the traffic again.

They didn't say a word the whole ride back.

* * *

The idea was that John was meant to spend the night alone in the flat. The landlord had been pretty good and had agreed he could have an extra day.

Until Adam stormed in at about half eleven using Paul's keys.

"Where the hell do you get off telling my brother I tried to rape you?"

John leapt off the sofa, panicked, "I never said-"

"It's what he's saying!" Adam snapped. "You wanted it, you were just as eager for it as I was."

"I was drunk," John yelled back.

"You're always fucking drunk," Adam hissed, "You're as bad as he is with the cocaine!"

No that wasn't…that wasn't true. Right. Confused John looked away, trying to regroup himself.

"Tell him you lied," Adam snarled, "Right now. Phone Paul and tell him you lied."

John stared at him, anger at the past few weeks suddenly roaring to the surface. "No," he said firmly, "I have no idea what you tried to do that night, but I'm not entirely sure Paul's not close to the mark."

Adam took a step forward. "You arrogant little tosser," he hissed. "I was just trying to be nice to you. I felt sorry for you."

John clenched his jaw.

"Poor little John, with his addict cheating scum boyfriend and useless little family that hate him. No wonder-"

John decked him and then watched Adam gasp on the floor, tilting his head as he slowly folded his arms, not quite sure he trusted himself not to try to punch him again.

"If you don't like people talking about it then don't do it," John said trying to keep his voice steady. "Get out. Now."

Adam stumbled up to his feet, "Don't even think about talking to my little brother again."

"I talk to who I damn well please," John levelled his chin. "Now fuck off."

Adam wiped the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, refusing to move.

"Okay," John rocked back on his feet, "If you don't get out of my house right now, if you say one more word about Sherlock, I will scream what you did to me from every single corner of London. I will personally walk into that fancy office of yours and tell anyone who will listen what a cowardly, lying piece of useless shit you are." He stood close to Adam, "And then, just for good measure, I'll deck you again. Am I clear?"

Something in Adam's eyes flickered and John saw him swallow. "John-"

The door burst open again and John shifted his gaze to see Sherlock, in the door, panting as if he'd ran a marathon, pale eyes sweeping the room furiously.

John just looked at Adam and then pointedly tilted his chin at the door.

"You wouldn't dare," Adam breathed.

"Try me," John said, amazed at how calm he sounded.

Adam let out a disgusted, frustrated noise and turned, freezing again at the sight of Sherlock.

Suddenly deflated, John just turned and walked into his room, slamming the door shut, before sliding down behind it, lost as to who he felt more angry at.

* * *

The door opened ten minutes later, after John had shaken himself and sat on his old bed instead, hating the sight of the empty mattress.

"Good few weeks I take it?" John asked as Sherlock walked in, turning on the light.

"He's gone," Sherlock said firmly. "I can't tell who he was more scared of," he added in what sounded like a confused tone.

John said nothing but watched as Sherlock trailed his hand along the bare surfaces, looking as unsettled by the empty room as John felt.

"Why are you here?" John asked.

"Paul. He texted me, angry that I didn't tell him. It didn't take a genius to work out what Adam would do next." Sherlock wouldn't look at him. "I came so you could ask."

"For?"

"Help," Sherlock raised his head to look at John. "You said you would ask when you needed it."

"I didn't," John replied stubbornly, "I am getting so sick of you all thinking I need rescuing."

"I'm not talking about Adam."

John frowned, "Then why-"

"Where are you staying tomorrow John?"

Feeling his cheeks redden, John refused to meet his gaze.

"You aren't playing by our rules," Sherlock said coming closer. "Two weeks and not once have you asked for help."

"You weren't replying-"

"How?" Sherlock suddenly sneered, "How could I? Could you reply and not beg to help if you saw me in this state?"

"They're your rules," John hissed, "You came up with them so you could-" he broke off, "Sorry, forgot the cardinal rule. Never talk about it."

Sherlock knelt in front of him suddenly. "I have a bed, I have money for a deposit. I have friends who could let you stay at a reduced rate at their hotel. You would be the first to offer all of this to another and yet you will always be the last to accept it for yourself," he gripped John's knees. "Stop being so stubbornly independent and let me help you!"

John stared at Sherlock's curling hair, noting how messy it was. "I have a job," he said, not sure why he felt the need to add that to the conversation.

"I saw," Sherlock sounded as if he was gritting his teeth.

"I should be able to do this," John muttered, looking down at his lap, catching a fleeting glimpse of the irritated expression on Sherlock's face. "I should manage on my own."

A hand touched his cheek carefully. "Why?" Sherlock asked. "No-one else does."

John bit his lip and closed his eyes as Sherlock stood and gathered him to his chest.

"We will never work if I move in with you," John warned.

"Tough," Sherlock muttered against his hair, "I stole your things. They're at mine."

John chuckled, surprising himself, "Of course you bloody did," he whispered, pulling away and looking up to see Sherlock already eyeing the suitcase.

"Sherlock?"

"I didn't hit him," Sherlock muttered, stroking a hand over John's back absently.

"What-no," John ducked a hand under Sherlock's shirt to stroke the smooth skin by his hip, "I was just gonna say…" he took a deep breath, "Can you help me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John saw the smile underneath. "Idiot," Sherlock muttered, "You could have asked months ago and spared us all this trouble."

* * *

**Upcoming Chapters**

**"Safe"** - John has an interesting chat with Gay Alf.

"**May you always."** - Another outsiders perspective - Violet Holmes, Mike Stamford, John's mother and Mycoft Holmes again.

**"Adjustments." **–

"**Remember."**


	22. Safe

As this is a rather short chapter I thought I would be nice and update quickly. The next part should be up by Saturday. Also I have a theory test for driving today so i'm pre-emptively either rewarding or consoling myself :)

**Thanks to Eowyn and lutz-chan for betaing this and the last few chapters :)**

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Summary: John has an interesting chat with Gay Alf.

Warning: Some smut

* * *

He was living with Sherlock.

John hadn't realised the sneaky git had moved again; this time into a one bed flat that meant he and John really were living together.

"I can't believe you," John murmured, staring at the book case that had his medical journals on them. "I can't believe you did all of this."

"In a good way?" Sherlock checked slowly, watching John carefully.

John nodded.

"Good. Though in the interest of honesty, I should probably inform you that I waited until you had no other options and then did this so you couldn't say no," Sherlock said frankly.

Cruel to be kind. For a moment John thought of his conversation with Mycroft, but pushed the thought away. "Still good," John said turning to smile at him. "Thank you."

Seeming pleased, Sherlock nodded, "Chinese?"

"Starved," John grinned and felt like he could just smile for the entire month with ease.

"Go and get it then," Sherlock ordered imperiously, "And no duck," he added, flopping down onto the sofa.

John rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to his head as he went to the door, "Fine," he said. "But I'm paying," he bargained.

Sherlock just flapped a hand at him. "Turn left out of here, second right, straight over and then third left, Fourth shop along," he ordered.

* * *

That night Sherlock mouthed against the back of his neck, hands tormenting John as he groaned and arched in their spooning position. One hand had two fingers buried in John while the other brushed over his cock and balls in soft, teasing strokes that made John thrust and whimper.

"More," John fisted into the pillow, clamping his muscles down and around Sherlock's fingers. "Please, more."

Behind him he could feel Sherlock rest his forehead on the nape of John's neck, clearly in a position to watch his fingers scissoring in and out of John.

Then he moved away slightly, keeping his fingers inside John with careful strokes while the other hand patted around for something.

John opened his eyes, suddenly desperate and eager, trying not to smile as he bit his lip. Sherlock rolled back, pulling his fingers out and something blunt was pressed against John.

And hard.

Too hard.

Surprised John twisted to look and Sherlock accommodated it, pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

"Watch," he whispered as he pushed the toy slowly in.

It hurt a little; not bad or sharply, just a dull ache that was so unfamiliar his brain immediately decided it had to be pain. John shifted on the bed as Sherlock pressed kisses down his back and lifted one of John's legs higher to accommodate the toy.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked against his skin.

John nodded, sweat forming on his brow from the heat of the night and their activities. "Just feels…really solid!" he gasped as the rest of the plug suddenly went in and fitted where it was meant to. "Christ," he turned into the pillow again.

Sherlock rolled him onto his back and crawled up his body, kissing his way to John's lips. "More?" he asked politely.

Eyes wide, John nodded and sighed with relief as Sherlock wrapped lube wet fingers around John. The other hand, braced on its elbow was waved in front of John's face.

It looked like a remote of some kind.

Sherlock settled back a little, watching John hungrily as he twisted the remote in his hand.

"Game?" he asked as he twisted his hand in a particularly delicious way.

"Now?" John panted, "Sure?"

"If you shut your eyes or look away from me, this goes off."

"What goes-"

The plug suddenly started to vibrate wonderfully and John arched, twisting and breaking eye contact-

Immediately the thing went dead and John nearly screamed in frustration.

"What about you?" he panted, knowing there was no way he could help Sherlock in this game.

"You know where the box is should you wish to have your revenge afterwards."

John grinned, "God, I love you," he said, opening his eyes and nearly babbling with pleasure when Sherlock flicked the button.

* * *

The biggest problem with living with Sherlock was getting out of the bed. Or rather getting dressed. Sherlock would pout or wrap suddenly octopus like limbs around John and pull him down onto a surface somewhere.

If this was what couples did when they first moved in together then perhaps he and Mike should count their blessing John hadn't had to stay with him!

"I have to go," John laughed as Sherlock pulled at his arm. "I have work."

Sherlock nodded, "I know," he said still tugging on John's arm. "I'm helping you get ready."

* * *

Gay Alf grinned, "So…someone decided to mark his territory!"

John was going to kill Sherlock when he got back in; he hadn't realised just how obvious the love bites were until he'd stepped into the bathroom light at the club to change into his t-shirt.

"Didn't he just," John pulled the pint with an expert hand now, "Lucky for me he's got much fairer skin – any vengeance will show up far more on him than on me!"

"Huh, revenge in relationships…is that your secret?" Gay Alf teased.

John smiled half-heartedly thinking about the other night and then looked around. It was still pretty early and relatively quiet.

"Can I ask…your opinion…if it's not too weird?"

Gay Alf nodded as he handed over the cash for his drink. "Go for it," he offered.

"Ok…If a guy asks for more when he's been….you know-"

"Fingered?" Gay Alf said frankly, taking a sip.

"Yeah," John scratched at the side of his eye in embarrassment, "Would the automatic assumption be that means please get out a, uh…"

"Dildo?"

"No," John looked upwards, "Toy, shall we say-"

"Plug?"

John huffed, "I'm trying!" he said, aware that he was now tomato red. "Will you just listen?"

Gay Alf nodded, "Ok, sorry, Uh…no. That wouldn't be my assumption. Why, did Sherlock ask for one?"

"No…" John shifted, "We haven't… I asked…" he took a deep breath, "He hasn't, you know. To me."

Gay Alf blinked, "Wait, you've topped and he hasn't?"

So much for subtlety! John nodded hesitantly.

"Huh," Gay Alf sat back, "Well…I own Matt a fiver-"

"ALF!" John shook his head. "Never mind-"

"No," Gay Alf reached out, "John, have you asked him why?"

"How do you ask?" John tapped his fingers on the bar, winced and reached for a cloth to wipe it. "Maybe he just prefers…that way."

"He doesn't."

John froze and looked up at Gay Alf, "And you would know that because…"

Gay Alf hesitated.

"You?" John gaped," You two-"

"Once. Years ago, both as high as kites," Gay Alf looked uncomfortable, "I don't actually think he remembers to be honest."

John breathed out in disbelief, feeling a little rocked. "Well, maybe it was just that once," he said, trying to focus on the point at hand.

Gay Alf pulled a face, "John…you have to understand, before you came along…there wasn't much Sherlock wouldn't do."

It took a moment for the double-entendre to sink in.

"Oh," John swallowed, suddenly hoarse, "Right. Yeah…I …I remember. The first time we met."

"You should talk to him," Gay Alf said sounding uncomfortable. "There must be some logic to it."

* * *

After the before midnight rush, John took his break, hopping outside for some fresh air.

"Well, it's not the best arse in the world," a familiar voice rung out, "But he's done worse."

Victor.

John froze, knowing he was no-where close to being in the right frame of mind to deal with this. Wide eyed and stumbling in his thoughts he turned.

"I could offer you some suggestions," Victor offered, flicking his cigarette away, "Things to help?"

John shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"You should be more careful about your conversations. I was having a 'chat' with Eddie in the back. It's precious, overhearing you worrying your little head."

"Go away," John mumbled, and then shook his head at himself.

Victor, bit his lip looking eager, "You have no idea what you're missing out on. How good it is, how attentive he can be."

It was a deliberate attempt to rile him; John doubted Victor fully understood the word attentive, but it still hit hard.

"He doesn't like to slow down though, hates waiting, you know how he is. Or maybe it's the whole virgin thing; he isn't one for sentimentality or sweet loving whispers."

Don't listen, don't listen…

Except part of him was.

Part of him was thinking of their first time, of how skittish Sherlock had been afterwards and the strange looks.

Victor was too close now, "Give him my best," he murmured, "I'm dying for an excuse."

John clenched his jaw as Victor walked away.

* * *

Sherlock had gone out by the time John got back in. Hating that he was left alone with his thoughts, he just went to bed, only to be woken up by Sherlock, slipping into bed hours later just before dawn.

"Safe," Sherlock whispered in his ear, half waking him.

John nodded and breathed him in.

* * *

"Why don't you want to fuck me?" John asked as Sherlock walked back in, naked from his shower.

The hand towelling his hair paused and Sherlock's face peeked from underneath, "I beg your pardon?"

"Just curious. Apparently it's your preferred option," John shrugged as if the matter was of little concern to him.

Sherlock looked as if he was searching his brain for something.

"See, when you have to take that long to work out who you've done that with, who would have told me, then you know there's quite a list!" John climbed off the bed. "You think about it while I have a shower."

* * *

When John pulled the shower curtain back to step out of the bath he nearly yelped to see Sherlock waiting patiently.

Fully dressed.

"Whatever it is that is going through your head, you are wrong," Sherlock announced.

"Really?" Accepting this conversation was going to happen in the bathroom, John reached out for a towel and wrapped it around himself, "So the fact that you gave me a wide berth after our first time together doesn't mean you hate being reassuring and…whatever else you think you'd have to be for me the first time we did that?"

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together, "That's a severe misconception of my reaction," he said with a frown. "If anything my reaction was based on a concern that I could not offer you the same experience you offered me."

"Oh!" John sat on the edge of the bath trying to process that. "But…how?" he asked baffled. "I was…If I hit the prostate more than five times that night I'd be amazed."

Sherlock snorted in amusement, "Your technique has improved," he conceded. "Which makes your performance that night all the more impressive. It was very…" Sherlock (Sherlock!) seemed to struggle for the right word. "Intimate," he said finally. "Far more so than I could ever manage."

"I don't think that's true," John said frowning at the suggestion.

"You don't think a lot of things are true," Sherlock dismissed.

"Okay," John took a deep worried breath, "So…if…I could push through it you know. I don't mind a bit of pain."

Sherlock looked utterly confused, "John, what on earth are you-"

"Having sex. You don't have to stop and wait if you hate it that much. It's fine. It's just a bit of discomfort."

Sherlock mouthed the words back to himself, as if deciphering a code, then John watched as his eyes widened in realisation.

"Victor," Sherlock sneered, standing up and aiming straight for the door. Luckily John slipped in between quickly.

"We have a deal-"John started to say.

"He is my problem, my social issue. Your terms do not cover him," Sherlock snarled.

"Not moving," John said frankly and Sherlock turned on his heel to pace the tiny bathroom. "Though slightly relieved that's not the reason."

Sherlock shook his head, muttering to himself. "I cannot believe you made that offer," he snapped whirling around suddenly. "Are you that stupid?"

"I was hardly asking you to beat me with a knife!" John cried, "I just meant that…I just meant that I wasn't that fragile."

"Your mind is if you think that was an acceptable offer," Sherlock caught the edge of the sink in a death grip, bowing over it.

"Then why-"

"You will not be safe!" Sherlock suddenly yelled.

"From what?"

"Condoms break," Sherlock said quietly. "And…the crawls…my muscles can…I cannot guarantee…" he straightened up suddenly. "When I am finished with it we will."

"With the drugs?" John asked staring at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror.

Sherlock nodded once.

It was strange. There was something oddly sweet about the sentiment – whether it was because Sherlock didn't want to risk being under the influence of anything that would cloud his mind or confuse his body, or whether it was because he wanted them to be free of the issues that lurked in the corners of their relationship – but that wasn't the strongest reaction John had to Sherlock's nod.

Stepping forward John stared at Sherlock's back. "When exactly will that be? Should I book it in the calendar?"

Seeming surprised Sherlock turned.

"I am not your sodding trophy!" John hissed incensed beyond belief.

"Why-"

"Is that it?" John asked staring at Sherlock, "Is that why you've done all this, shown an interest because you've put me on some fucking pedestal like your favourite toy? I don't just exist, waiting for you to feel ready to move on to the next part of your life. Do you have any idea how cruel and selfish that is? If you don't want me now, then let me go."

Sherlock went white.

"That's it, isn't it?" John let out a disbelieving laugh, "Oh god, that's actually it! You don't want me at the moment, but you can't bear the idea that when you do want this, it'll be too late."

Sherlock's mouth worked a few times but nothing came out.

Dazed, John turned and walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, looking for his clothes. He'd managed to get his jeans on before Sherlock's hand clamped around his wrist.

"You are the one thing in this world that I love," Sherlock hissed sounding desperate, "I-"

"No I'm not!" John yelled. Infuriated he reached onto the bed and rummaged for the trousers Sherlock had been wearing the night before, finding a tiny bag in the back pocket. "This," he said holding it up to Sherlock, "This is the one thing you love. This and that," he said flicking a finger at Sherlock's forehead. "I don't even come close." He threw the bag at Sherlock who caught it and tossed it onto the bed.

"You are so thick!" Sherlock sneered, "It's because I love you that I do them-"

John laughed in sheer stunned amazement at his gall, "How-?"

"I have told you!" Sherlock shouted, "I need to be able to think to keep you safe-"

John turned away and grabbed at his shirt, "I am not listening to this again. Whatever bloody soap opera you have playing in your head is fucking stupid." He yanked the t-shirt over his head.

"You punched Victor Trevor and broke his nose. I play Poker with people who know a lot of people. I con people. I cannot just walk away from that and if I do, I cannot risk being useless and suffering from withdrawal."

"The world does not revolve around you!" John yanked on his trainers.

"But mine revolves around you!" Sherlock pleaded, and John paused closing his eyes. "Everyone knows it, if they want to get to me, they go through you." Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John, "I need to find a way out of this. I will, I'll find a way, I just need time."

John stared at him, at the bloodshot eyes, at the new marks on his arm from where his sleeves had ridden up and at the spasms in his hands.

Then looked up to his face and the pleading expression, the slight edge that showed Sherlock thought he had made a convincing enough argument and was about to relax.

John leaned forward. "You sound like a junkie," he hissed.

The words hit Sherlock like a slap John would never deliver and Sherlock swayed backwards looking stunned. Taking the chance John stood up as Sherlock remained kneeling.

"And you can tell all these people that you reckon lurk in the shadows, all these excuses, that you've just done their job for them." John walked to the door. "And you probably did it better than they ever would."

He slammed the door behind him.

* * *

So...yeah! Saturday ;)

* * *

**Chapter 23:** "**May you**** always."** -Violet Holmes, Mike Stamford, Rebecca Watson and Mycoft Holmes again watch as Sherlock and John try to work out what to do next.

**Chapter 24:**** "Adjustments." **–

**Chapter 25:**** "Remember."**


	23. May you always

As I passed my test, made soup (from utter scratch!) and got more reviews for the last chapter than ever before, I decided to be nice and update.

Plus a future chapter is making me tear my hair out. They just will not do as they are told - I will have to have words! :P

* * *

Chapter Summary: Violet Holmes, Mike Stamford, Rebecca Watson and Mycoft Holmes again watch as Sherlock and John try to work out what to do next.

The poem is Tranquillity by Sandra Sturtz Hauss and it's a little out of order!

* * *

**May you always**

_**Violet Holmes**_

"_**What you may feel you lack in one regard**__**  
**__**may be more than compens**__**ated for in another."**_

There were many things Violet had come to expect over the years as Sherlock's mother. Phone calls from headmasters that sounded stunned from the exploits of her youngest son, the actual worry that Sherlock may have had something to do with the missing rabbit from down the road at number twenty three and the sudden urge to get Sherlock to eat just so he couldn't talk at the dinner table and upset his great Aunt again.

But this was very new.

Mycroft stood in front of her with a miserable looking John Watson standing awkwardly in the hallway. The poor boy's eyes were red with tears and his hair was still damp.

"What happened?"

John hunched his shoulders, clearly desperately uncomfortable, "Nothing-" he started to say stubbornly.

"With any luck Sherlock may have hit rock bottom," Mycroft announced.

Behind him John shook his head, clearly disagreeing.

* * *

"What did you fight about?" Violet asked, leading John into the kitchen as Mycroft went to stalk Sherlock again.

Some days it was hard to work out which son to be more concerned about.

The sudden panicked look told her it had probably been about sex. Sitting back as she stirred the teapot Violet sighed. Before meeting John she would have guessed Sherlock had been unfaithful or had demanded something…unusual. But she'd seen her son with John, seen the way Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the young man when he smiled or blushed. She'd seen the protective glare aimed at anyone who walked by and, while not exactly healthy, it was certainly an improvement.

"John?" she prompted.

"I…he's your son. I can't…" John looked away, "I shouldn't even be here."

Ah.

It seemed so unfair at times. She had two sons who were far more intelligent than she could dream of, who would baulk at the slightest interference and yet, here was John, so desperately in need of someone to listen, someone to go home to and hide with just for a day and his own mother wouldn't even pick up the phone to him.

"John…do you honestly believe either of my sons are going to knock on my door and ask for help?"

Something about that sentence made John look at her strangely. "Probably not," John said, seemingly thinking about something else. "Has he ever?"

The question took her by surprise, it seemed so out of the blue, "I'm sorry?"

"Asked for help, Sherlock I mean?"

"No," Violet said frankly. "Mycroft just…steps in and fixes it all for him."

John seemed to be mulling something over and sat at her offer as she poured the tea.

"He does that with me," John said suddenly, "Tries to be Mycroft."

"To Sherlock, Mycroft is…" Violet sighed, "What everyone wanted him to be. He has never understood that he needs to find his own way rather than just reacting to what he knows people expect."

"I don't expect him to be anything," John muttered, taking a sip. "I just wish he was something."

"John," Violet reached for his hand, "Do you not understand how much that must terrify Sherlock? With you he has possibilities. Real choices. The chance of a life he dismissed," she squeezed his hand. "My son is a selfish boy, we all know that. Selfish and arrogant; he had never had to work for anything in his life. It all comes to him so easily and he expects that. He knows how to demand what he wants, but to fight for it? To work hard for something? That is a foreign concept to him."

John stared at their hands and Violet kept her grip firm.

"You on the other hand have never had anything handed to you," she said hesitantly and watched John look up in surprise, his shoulders tensing warily. "You have had to fight for everything, work hard to get to this stage. You veer away from the easy path because to you that feels like cheating." John looked a little taken aback. "You are seeing shadows, seeing problems where there don't have to be any."

"He…" John's jaw was set as if determined to prove her wrong, "he won't…you know. Until he's clean."

Her heart warmed a little at the idea of Sherlock denying himself something, of her son thinking of someone else for a change. "Why?"

John rolled his eyes, "Some sh…nonsense about keeping me safe."

Noting the almost curse Violet pulled her hand back, hiding a smile at how blessedly sweet the boy could be. "From him?"

John nodded and then blinked. "Yeah," he said, as if just realising what that actually meant.

Violet sipped her tea. "I thanked you once for keeping my son sober for a night. Now I can thank you for making him see something far more valuable." She stood up to start making something for John to eat.

"Which is?" John sounded as if he didn't dare to hope.

"That he isn't coping."

* * *

_**Mike Stamford.**_

"_**Learn to view everything  
as a worthwhile experience."**_

There was something brilliant about being in love with a chef. It was like watching an artist at work.

And then of course there was the food afterwards. That was far more useful than a painting.

"Try," Kirsty said, offering him a spoonful of her soup and holding up the wooden spoon to his lips, cupping her hand underneath it as she watched him with hopeful brown eyes.

Obediently he ducked his head down and took a slurp.

He was going to marry this girl.

"Delicious," he said, savouring the butternut squash soup.

"Not too sweet?"

There was a knock at the door, "Not at all. Just right," he said, standing up as she used another spoon to stir.

That was the downside; there was always a lot of washing up and it seemed only fair that when she did a lot of the cooking to experiment with flavour combinations he should do the washing up.

She always dried though.

Mike opened the door and was practically flung backwards as hurricane Sherlock stormed in and strode straight into his bedroom.

Kirsty put the spoon down on the counter, hard. "What is he doing?" she demanded.

"I…" Mike threw up his hands, "I honestly have no idea!"

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked stomping back out again.

"Who?" Wait, that was a really stupid question. "John? I have no idea; I thought he was staying at yours."

Sherlock glanced at him and then walked into the bathroom. Mike winced at Kirsty's expression as he heard Sherlock yank the shower curtain back fiercely.

"Did you have a fight?" Mike asked as Sherlock re-emerged and headed for the boiler closest.

Sherlock paused and whirled. "Why would you say that?" he demanded.

"I…a guess?"

Sherlock pulled a face and yanked the door open, hissing with annoyance when faced with the boiler and the towels.

"John isn't here," Kirsty said sternly from the kitchen. "And even if he was, forcing your way in here to demand he listen to you is a really, really stupid idea."

Sherlock shot her a look that clearly said he thought she was being stupid and Mike stepped forward. "If I see John I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Don't be moronic, he already knows that," Sherlock snapped. "You will text me if he shows up."

Unable to help himself Mike shook his head and watched Sherlock's eyes narrow as he made a visible effort to calm himself down.

"I need to talk to him. He has made a hideous error in judgement and I need to correct him."

Kirsty made a loud, unimpressed noise from the kitchen as she started to put her equipment in the sink. Glancing over Mike sighed.

"You might want to rephrase that when you see him next time."

Sherlock suddenly tilted his head. "You haven't seen him."

"That's what I've been saying."

"He's been gone a day." Sherlock started pacing in a way that had almost worn marks into their carpet at the old place. "Would he go to Paul?"

Mike opened his mouth.

"No, you saw Paul earlier," Sherlock dismissed and Mike felt his mouth drop, stunned no matter how many times Sherlock did that. "Alf hasn't seen him either, nor was he at work." A sudden sullen expression crossed his face. "Harry."

"Uh she's on holiday," Mike piped up. "With Clara."

Suddenly Sherlock smiled viciously. "Excellent."

Then he turned and left, yanking the door closed behind him.

"What does John see in him?"

Mike shook his head, "Well at least he provides us with interesting stories for work tomorrow!"

Kirsty smiled and nodded. "Too much drama," she sighed. "Poor John."

* * *

_**Rebecca Watson.**_

_**May you find enough inner strength**__**  
**__**to determine your own**__** worth by yourself**_,

"Isn't your son training to be a doctor?" Amanda Sinclare asked as she sipped at her wine.

Rebecca glanced at Phil who was surrounded by the men on the street as he flipped the meat over the barbecue.

"Yes," she smiled and turned to Lisa, "Do you think that's enough salad-"

"Is he not home for the summer?"

"Oh," Rebecca shook her head, "He and my daughter just went on holiday together with some friends. Such busy lives these young people have. No time for Mum!"

Amanda nodded and Rebecca caught the look that was shared over her head.

John needed to get over this phase quickly. His continued absence had already disturbed Phil enough that she'd noticed he had been pulling away from her. It was like losing her second husband all over again when Harry had started her phase.

But it was easier to hide with girls; they often kissed and hugged so it was easily explained but boys…far more obvious.

John was being as stubborn as his father used to be.

In the distance a car was blasting out music as loud as it could go.

"Dreadful noise, isn't it?" Rebecca said sighing, looking over at Phil again. The neighbourhood was so classy, so calming.

There was no possible way she was giving this lifestyle up; it had grown on her so much these past few years. But it seemed no matter how hard she tried, the wives of Phil's friends could never seem to relax around her; they were always exchanging those looks.

Amanda gasped, "Who on earth is that?" she asked watching as a figure stormed up the stairs.

"Phil!" Rebecca called, panicked, "There's someone in the house."

"They must be bloody mad," Simon called out, "Can't they see we're all out in the garden?"

"What do we do?" Rebecca asked as Phil came close.

"Are you sure you saw someone?" he asked, sounding doubtful. "I mean it does seem rather unlikel-" he broke off as the figure stormed back down the stairs. "Oh!"

He was tall and impeccably dressed, in fact he seemed to be wearing tailored clothing and a designer shirt. His hair was wild in comparison and pale eyes darting as he walked into the garden.

"Where's John?" he asked, dismissing the party.

"I…on holiday," Rebecca squeaked, "Are you a friend?" John was starting to understand appearances then. He'd always failed miserably at that, just like his father.

The man stopped in front of her and looked as if he was scanning her. Then pulled a face, "How dull," he muttered as if to himself. "Where is John?"

"On holiday," Phil stepped forward, "With his sister. They go every summer."

"Every summer," the stranger repeated sounding twistedly amused as he looked at Rebecca again. "Has he called?"

"Look," Phil stepped in front of her, "You can't just barge in here and demand this. Rebecca was upset enough as it was that the kids didn't come here again this year."

The pale eyes widened a fraction. "He doesn't know," the stranger huffed out a laugh, "Oh…that's almost interesting."

"What…?" Phil glanced between them. "What the hell is going on?"

"He hasn't called you," the stranger continued, as if Phil hadn't spoken and a sudden anger crossed his face, "Part of him knows, doesn't he, that it was never your latest meal ticket that had an objection to him coming home."

Phil seemed more and more confused. "I've never even met the lad. He never comes to see his mother," he added, getting defensive.

Rebecca almost couldn't breathe, "Enough. I have his number somewhere-"

"And who do you think you are coming here and demanding to see him," Phil added, stepping forward even as Rebecca tried to pull him back. "What gives you the right-"

"I'm his partner."

It took a moment to sink in.

"You?" Rebecca breathed, "You're Sherlock?"

"Partner?" Phil turned to look at her, "What…You never said your son was gay."

Helplessly she stared at him, remembering how it had been with Stuart and his reaction to Harry.

She couldn't lose everything all over again.

There was silence in the garden.

"You did it," she hissed at Sherlock, "You corrupted him. He was fine before you came along and-"

"And?" Sherlock's eyes were alight with something, "And what? Didn't throw a saucepan at his head and tell him it was no big deal because I missed?"

Rebecca gasped.

"Indeed, how dare I give him money when he was short and you refused to help, how dare I give him a place to live when you wouldn't let him come home, how dare I take him to my house for Christmas because you didn't want to introduce him to your new boyfriend." Sherlock sniffed, "Tell me which I should apologise for first."

Rebecca stared at him through tears and looked over at Phil who had gone pale.

"Does he know about Harry?" Sherlock snarled, "That I had to listen to John after he came off the phone to you after you screamed at him that his dead father would be ashamed of both your children because they have same sex partners?"

"I never-"

"Were you drunk?"

The glass in her hand had never felt so heavy.

"The most amusing thing, you dull little woman, is that it isn't me they're all disgusted by," he said glancing at the guests. "It's you," he breathed and stepped back. "Oh and if he does call, do answer. We had a fight and your son is so desperate to not be seen as a burden I'm starting to think the idiot's decided to sleep rough rather than ask for help."

With that he turned on his heel and stormed off.

This wasn't happening. She wasn't losing this.

Desperate she ran after him, through the house and through the open front door, pausing at the sight of the very expensive car parked in front of the house that he was currently getting into.

"Take it all back," she begged. "Tell them you were lying."

Sherlock paused and gripped the door hard, then whirled, "I beg your pardon?"

"Tell them you were upset." Rebecca stumbled forward, "Please, I can't lose Phil, I'll fix it and then John can come home whenever he wants."

Sherlock stared down the road then back at her, "That's your reaction?" he said coldly, slamming the door shut and walking over to her. "To my telling you that your son could be sleeping rough, that he hasn't been seen in days. That's your reaction? Fix my relationship."

"I can help. Once Phil understands, I can ask him to help."

Sherlock stared at her and then something like realisation crossed his face, "Oh…Oh! You're it! You're the reason he doesn't want me helping," he leaned in close as if she was some specimen at the zoo. "He doesn't want to become you, so he's gone the other way." He pulled back, "Really, that is rather extraordinary."

"Well what on earth could I do to help?" Rebecca snapped. "I'm not like you. You have money to spend on him-"

Sherlock's eyes lit with fury. "If you knew your son, even one bit, you would know just how stupid that sentence was." He opened the car door and then turned. "I gave him five thousand pounds last summer and do you know what your son did with it?"

Rebecca shook her head, "I imagine it all went on partying and whatever it is he gets up to."

"He gave it to my brother who gave it back to me. Every single penny." Sherlock said with a tightness to his voice. "And then worked himself to the bone to pay his bills. Your son is the best man I have ever known and it is disgusting that you think he should be ashamed of himself."

He got in the car.

"Tell him," Rebecca grabbed onto the window, "Tell him to come here and fix this."

The key went in the ignition and the engine started up as a quick, fleeting touch to the dash ensured the music switched off before it could start thumping away.

"Fix what?" Sherlock asked suddenly switching to utter politeness, so strange from what she had seen previously. "I don't think there's anything left worth bothering about."

And with that he speed off leaving her in the wake of his devastation.

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes.**_

_**What you feel you lack in the present**__**  
**__**may become one of your strengths in the future.**__**  
**_

"You have come to a decision?"

John nodded, glancing up at the ceiling as if fearful Mummy would suddenly sense what they were doing and come down to stop it. It was a little disconcerting how easily she had bonded with John and how fond she seemed.

But then, he had been a good influence on Sherlock; perhaps it was understandable that she treated John like an angel sent from heaven.

John nodded and pulled the papers forward.

"John?" There was a strange feeling in his stomach, as if perhaps this wasn't as good an idea as he'd first thought. It was a foolish notion because Mycroft had been pondering this issue for months now.

"I was gonna do it before Sherlock," John shrugged, "It's the best option money wise and I do better with jumping in the deep end. Plus…" he let out a long breath, "I get it. I get Sherlock a lot better now. He won't see me as anything other than something he has to protect and that's something I need to change. Plus, you're right, Sherlock needs to be on his own and realise what he needs to do for himself."

"Once you sign this you cannot go back. It is a commitment that must be honoured."

John nodded, "I know," he said, flashing a smile, "You okay with it?" he asked clearly joking.

Strangely not as "okay" with it as he had been a few months ago.

"I want to do this. I want to make a difference and I want to…" John looked away. "I want to know I did something on my own. I need that, I think. I'm so wrapped up in him that I can't always think straight," John looked back, "I'm twenty one years old. That scares the crap out of me!"

Mycroft nodded, "Then I suppose you should sign it."

And with that, John Watson signed the form to sign up under special conditions to start his practical medical training, not in one of the prestigious hospitals as planned, but in the armed forces the following July.

Sherlock was going to kill him.

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

_**May you see your future  
as one filled with promise and possibility.**_

The door opened as he sat on the bed, head in his hands at having found nothing. Four days and nothing, despite long conversations with the homeless of London.

Hoping beyond hope, Sherlock stood and walked out of the bedroom, finding himself staring at John, who looked miraculously well.

And smelt like Channel no5.

"My mother," he hissed, "Of course. Mycroft picked you up."

John nodded, "Why, where did you think I went?"

"That…depends," he would have to gauge how best to inform John of his "conversation" with Rebecca Watson. "Are you back?"

John nodded slowly, "I…maybe I over-reacted," he seemed hesitant, as if unsure with the word. "I…it was…is, nice of you to want to wait. Until it's just us."

Sherlock nodded, "And I should have told you. Instead of simply making the decision. Your opinion is valid, important."

John's jaw dropped and he looked around, "Uh…yeah actually," he said, seeming spooked.

"I met your mother."

John actually winced, "Oh God," he looked up. "I guess she didn't bake you a cake?"

"Why would she?"

"Your mum made me one."

Good. "It made quite a few things clear, about you."

John paled, "What did she say?" he asked nervously.

Sherlock shook his head, walking over. "You are not her, John, not even close. I find it strange that you could have been birthed and raised by her."

That earned him a half-hearted smile.

"You were right," Sherlock blurted out suddenly, surprising himself. "Had you said all that to me a year ago, you would have been right."

"But not now?"

"I…" How was he meant to explain it? "I just went to your mother's house and have successfully ended her relationship, living situation and friendships in the space of ten minutes. I have a talent John, and it is not for making things work."

"Sherlock-"

"This, this is too important." Needing to make John understand he cupped his chin. "I hate things that are easy. Everything is easy. Apart from this and you. I want to make sure I try properly."

"And you aren't used to trying," John said with a rueful grin.

No. It was surprising how right John was. He really wasn't used to trying hard.

"Do we still not talk about it?" John asked.

It was tempting, terribly tempting to agree. But such ideas had allowed John's insecurities to build.

"I haven't taken heroin since that night you sat up with me," Sherlock confessed, dropping his hand. "Just cocaine now."

It was odd to say the words out loud. Stranger still to see John blink and nod slowly. "Nothing else?"

"No."

John nodded, "And…how often…?" he trailed off as if unsure he was allowed to ask.

"Two nights a week. Sometimes three."

"Is that better than it was?"

That was a hard question.

"I'm more aware of how much now," Sherlock said slowly. "I try to limit it. Knowing you're here helps; I do not wish to come home high."

John looked at him. "Okay," he said smiling faintly. "Okay."

"I need you to understand," Sherlock said firmly. "More than anything else, I need you to know. I do love you."

John nodded, "And I love you. More than you can imagine."

Satisfied and enjoying the natural buzz in his stomach from John's words Sherlock nipped at his lips, "Shower," he decided, "You smell like my mother and it is rather disconcerting."

John laughed. "You gonna be watching me through the shower curtain again you perv?"

"Absolutely not." Sherlock tugged him towards the bathroom, "I shall be washing that smell off of you."

Besides. Who could possibly pass up the opportunity to have a naked, soaking wet version of John in their arms?

* * *

_**John Watson**_

_**May you always  
feel loved.**_

John lay, revelling in a rare moment where Sherlock slept while he was awake. Fingers traced up Sherlock's arms and he frowned at the marks there; tangible evidence of what was creeping in and threatening to destroy this wonderful man.

"You are gonna be so mad," John whispered, almost inaudible to himself. Sherlock, clearly exhausted from the days spent searching, slept on, oblivious.

"I'm sorry," he whispered on. "I wish…I wish I was strong enough to stay and demand…" John stroked the marks with a feather light touch. "But I know…I'm your greatest excuse."

"And I think you really believe it. I'm trapping you in it now. And I love you far too much for that." John swallowed, "So, when you find out, when I tell you…" he studied Sherlock's face. "I really hope you understand one day that I love you far too much to not do this."

One year. Just one more year.

* * *

Upcoming Chapters:

Chapter 24: Adjustments – John and Sherlock adjust to the changes in their relationship!

Chapter 25: Remember – It's the Christmas Dinner again, and a lot has changed since last time.

Chapter 26: -

Chapter 27: What protects me.


	24. Adjustments

Thank you so much to all the reviewers - you guys are out on force at the moment! And it's great to see so many people reading the fic - I get ever so squeekily happy to see it!

* * *

Chapter Summary: Sherlock and John adjust to the changes in their relationship.

* * *

**Beginning of August**

His fingers were sticky and smelt like mint. Screwing his nose up at the sensations, John twisted the key in the lock and pushed the door to get in.

And was welcomed by the sight of Mycroft standing with his arms folded, glaring at Sherlock's back. Looking between the two John let out a loud sigh, trying to work out if he would manage to get to the bedroom without being dragged into the epic Holmes' battle of overly subtle hints and snarks.

Might be better to just turn around, go back to the club and beg to work until the bitter end.

Until, hearing John come in, Sherlock turned to display a bloody lip, a bruised cheek and marks on his hands from throwing punches.

John slammed the door closed, tossing his keys on the tiny sofa. "What have you done?" he demanded, folding his arms.

Sherlock seemed to be having some internal debate with himself. "I miscalculated," he said sounding rather put out at the idea.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

Okay. John waited. Then, when it appeared Sherlock wasn't going to add anything more, he turned to Mycroft.

"Why are you here?"

Behind Mycroft, Sherlock beamed at the question. "Indeed," he said slinking forward, "Mycroft you are relieved of your duty."

John didn't move from the door and Sherlock's gleeful expression fell. Mycroft's cool gaze flickered over to his brother and Sherlock stared back at him.

There was only one defence for this, John had discovered. Stubbornness.

"Well one of you had better say something or I'll stand in front of this door all night."

"I…" Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, as if ruing the day John had discovered this trick. "Lost a game."

"Oh let's not be modest Sherlock," Mycroft said with far too much eagerness in John's opinion. "You lost spectacularly."

"Why?" John ignored Mycroft, "You never lose."

"It was an unusual set of circumstances," Sherlock was staring at Mycroft with a look in his eyes that dared Mycroft to add anything more to the subject. Mycroft just shook his head.

"I…I don't get it," John risked taking a small step from the door and towards the two men. "I mean, why would they beat you up for not taking their money?"

"Because," Sherlock looked at John slowly, "They did not want the person who won to win."

"You conned a table of poker players?" John dropped his arms from their folded position. "To ensure someone else won?"

Sherlock watched him.

Why the hell would he…

Oh.

"Well," John drew in a deep breath, "I really hope your high was worth it, looking at the state of you."

"There were five men," Sherlock seemed a little put out, "It's not easy to quickly subdue them all, a few managed to get a punch or two in."

Mycroft's mouth twisted into a small smile, "How proud we all are of your accomplishments. Able to con and fight your way out of a poker game. We must add it to the Christmas letter."

"As opposed to noting once again your record number of cakes eaten in a week?" Sherlock mocked, "Or how many times you signed a piece of paper in an hour?"

"How about-"

"Oh God," John threw up his hands. "Do what you want, I'm going to bed. You," he said pointing to Sherlock, "have a shower before you come in and you," he pointed at Mycroft, "try your best not to make him stamp his foot. I have to get up early."

Mycroft and Sherlock were glaring so hard at each other John doubted they even heard him.

* * *

A regular at Back Door had offered him a few shifts a week at the local pub called the King's Arms. Somehow, John managed to get out of bed (God knew where Sherlock was, he hadn't been in the bedroom at all) and dragged himself down to the pub for a lunch time shift. It was a little different, working in the pub; slower but people weren't quite as drunk and happy to let things slide.

Gary, the manager who'd offered him the shifts, let him take home a sandwich from the kitchen for his dinner.

He had four hours before another shift at Back Door. This time, when he opened the door, mouth full of sandwich, there was no-one in the flat.

God he was tired.

Too lazy to care, John stripped off as he walked to the bedroom, set his alarm for three hours' time and crashed out on the bed, asleep in minutes.

* * *

A lovely hand was trailing across his back, firmly stroking his muscles, the nape of his neck and his aching lower back. Groaning in relief at the sensation, John shifted to give Sherlock more room.

Bloody hell did that feel good.

"What's the time?" he asked into the pillow.

"Seven."

Two more hours then. John hissed in pleasure as Sherlock found a particularly vicious knot on his back.

"You took another job," Sherlock said with far too much nonchalance to be believed.

"Mm," John focused on the wonderful hands that were on him. "Money. Need it."

"Why?" Sherlock sounded so frankly curious that John almost turned to stare at him but, reluctant to break the massage, simply turned his head a little to the side.

"To pay for things you moron," he said a little grumpy. "So what are your plans tonight then? Do you need me to patch you up?"

There was a head tilt; he could feel it from the way Sherlock shifted and the sound of Sherlock breathing in. "You seem remarkably calm," Sherlock said slowly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

The weight on the back of his thighs shifted up to sit on his arse and suddenly two arms were braced on either side off his head, trapping him down.

"Not got time for this," John warned with a sigh.

A hand disappeared from his sight, then reappeared, Sherlock holding the clock in his grasp and dumping it on the pillow so John could see before returning to the previous human cage position.

7.05AM

Wait…AM?

"Sherlock!" John exploded, "Get off me!"

But Sherlock held his position firm and, flat on the bed, John had absolutely no chance of getting any leverage whatsoever. Furious he ended up slumping, glaring at the clock that stared back at him accusingly.

"You turned my alarm off!" John snapped.

"You slept for fourteen hours straight," Sherlock hissed back.

"Christ sakes!" John yelled, trying to buck again. "I can't lose that job Sherlock."

"Then why take a second?"

"I told you I need-"

"You don't," Sherlock sat up, still pining John's arse to the bed. "I am paying the rent-"

"I need it for a deposit."

Suddenly the weight was lifted and John sighed into the sheets before turning around to meet Sherlock's hurt expression.

"You knew that," John said hesitantly, sitting up. "You knew I'd be moving in with Andy when he got back."

John received a single nod before Sherlock walked out of the room.

Great. John couldn't decide whether he should feel pissed off or guilty now.

"Besides," he called out, "The way you gamble at least one of us needs to be able to bail us out if needed."

Something was slammed down in the other room as Sherlock came storming back in.

"As I recall it was not I who nearly lost my fingers and all that I owned playing poker," Sherlock snapped. "I do not lose what I cannot afford to lose!"

"I…" John crawled forward on the bed towards where Sherlock stood, "I'm sorry okay?" he said scraping a hand through his hair as Sherlock watched him cautiously. "I'm…that was unfair."

Sherlock seemed to be waiting for more though.

"I…" Huffing and trying not to let his tiredness affect his temper, John dragged the sheets around him. "Did you at least phone work?"

"I covered your shift," Sherlock said woodenly.

"You?" John gaped.

"No…Eddie Pierce," Sherlock looked slightly affronted, "I do not belong in the service industry, John."

Grinning at the image, John nodded, "Okay," he took a deep breath, "So…you want me to stay here?"

Now Sherlock looked very unsure. "It is…I like knowing where you are."

John nodded very slowly, "Right, and when uni starts up and I am home all night and studying all evening in this one bed flat, are you going to feel over the moon delighted or so claustrophobic there's a chance I might end up strangled to death in my sleep?"

"I wouldn't strangle you," Sherlock muttered, "Dull way to kill someone."

John raised an eyebrow and waited.

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, "I see the potential issues."

"So we can avoid those and I'll flat-share with Andy?" John asked, kneeling up to place a kiss on Sherlock's jaw line, who still seemed unwilling to concede the point. "I like it," John confessed, fiddling with Sherlock's buttons. "I love living here with you. But you are going to go mad soon."

Sherlock shifted, watching John undo his shirt. "There are benefits," he said, trailing a hand down John's neck and across his shoulder.

"I know," John sat back as he worked on Sherlock's belt. "Andy never gives massages as good as that!"

Sherlock snorted, "True," he agreed, sounding disappointed.

John paused at the zip and glanced up suddenly wary and caught Sherlock's amused smile. Trying not to laugh, he pinched at Sherlock's thigh with a put upon glare.

* * *

**Mid August**

Bored out of his mind, John placed a penny on the bar and spun it, watching it whirl and dance before it slowed and clattered to the plastic surface.

"It's dead!" Leo huffed resting his chin on the beer taps. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

"Gay Alf said there was some festival down the way," John shrugged, "And warned that as a group we aren't the most loyal of customers."

Leo snorted then nodded with his chin, "Your boyfriend just walked in."

Spotting Sherlock was easy enough considering how few people were in the club. With a nod at Leo, John wandered back over to where Sherlock was aiming, meeting him with the bar in between.

"Want a blow job?" John offered cheekily.

Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That had better not be how you greet all your customers," he muttered.

John tapped at the cocktail menu. "There," he said pointing to the picture of the shot, "I find if I get in first then it makes it a lot easier," he added with a grin.

Sherlock looked around suspiciously, eyes lingering on a few regulars and nodding to himself.

"Sherlock?" John prompted, "Do you want a drink?"

His boyfriend shook his head slowly. "When is your next break?"

John shrugged, "Dunno. I think you have to actually do some work to get a break."

"Take it," Sherlock suggested.

* * *

Sherlock almost wrestled him into the toilets and then slammed him against the door, kissing John so frantically that John could do nothing but just let him.

Then sighed in annoyance as Sherlock started to mouth at his neck.

"Nu-uh," John ducked out from Sherlock's arms, "The last one took a week to fade."

"Good." Sherlock started to stalk him.

"Look, as…sweet? As it is that you want to…" John gestured at his neck, "It doesn't help. They all think I'm into rough kinky sex now."

"You are," Sherlock pointed out, following him.

"Yeah…but that's not helpful here," John tried not to giggle as he realised they were doing a strange circle around the bathroom. "And it's you that's kinky. I just indulge you."

There was a snort at that. "You do not indulge anything," Sherlock said, seemingly equally amused by their odd circling, "You are exceedingly petulant if you dislike something."

"Me?" John grinned, "I'm sorry, but if you look petulant up in the dictionary it's your picture that's next to the definition, not mine!"

Sherlock feinted and John danced back, "Stop being such a child," John hissed between laughs, "You are so gonna get me in trouble.

"You're bored," Sherlock sounded as if that were a capital offence. "I'm helping," he reached again and John slipped under him, not really sure what they were doing.

"You're quick," Sherlock murmured with approval.

"Don't say that," John scolded, "That doesn't reflect well on me."

One of Sherlock's rare, pleased smiles appeared on his face as he shook his head at John. "Really, don't be so-" he suddenly struck, grabbing John's arms as John tried to turn, intending to use the momentum to throw Sherlock off, but somehow he just ended up trapped tightly against the wall.

Again.

"-juvenile," Sherlock finished, as if it had been a mere distracted pause.

Then his hands reached under John's shirt and started to tickle.

"You fucker!" John yelped squirming and laughing as he struggled in Sherlock's grasp, ending up almost face down on the counter as Sherlock ruthlessly continued to tickle. "I can't believe you at-"

The door opened.

In that instant John was suddenly very aware that they were both panting, both red and that John was face down on a counter with Sherlock behind him.

And it was his supervisor in the doorway.

"Toby," John nodded, "It's so not what it looks like!"

Toby just looked, rolled his eyes and huffed, "Guys, seriously. If you're gonna put on a show at least do it outside where I can attract customers."

Muttering to himself he walked back out. "Oh and John, ten more minutes. Long enough?"

John thunked his head on the counter. "Congratulations," he said staring at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror, "I'm now your bitch."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, stepping back and looking smug. "When were you not?" he asked straightening his clothes in the mirror absently. "At least you're not bored now," he added, as if he'd saved John from a particularly dangerous dragon.

John laughed.

* * *

**End of August**

In the end Andy begged and pleaded with John until he agreed to let Andy take over his jobs once uni started back up.

"My mum won't stop fucking coming in my room. I'm bored! Do you have any idea what it's like to be so bored you actually have to risk your mum walking in on you wanking, just cause you need something to do?" Andy complained down the phone. "I'll take over your jobs. You'll have your loan."

"But Andy," John said, flicking through some flat-shares, "I mean you know what those awful big bad homos are like at the end of the night? Are you sure you can handle it? I mean you'll be like the sweet girl at the end of a shift who's been banging on about how much she wanks and all the guys will-"

"Fuck off!" Andy huffed, "I get it, it's annoying!"

John scrolled down the screen as he lay on his stomach, "Then as soon as you apologise I will phone to recommend you."

There was a long silence.

"Oh my god, you really are such a tosser," Andy whinged.

"Try again," John said sweetly.

"I am sorry you have no life," Andy muttered. "And that you have become this petty. You used to be cool!"

"From the guy who wants to wank in front of his mum?"

"That's not what I…" Andy huffed. "Fine. I'm sorry I was concerned for your well-being."

"As long as you are," John grinned. "And have you looked at the link I sent you? Third one down?"

Andy muttered under his breath and then let out a laugh, "Oh Christ, we'll die!" he said. "We'll get stabbed just locking the door."

"It's cheap," John pointed out.

"And it'll piss off my Dad!" Andy sounded overjoyed. "What about Sherlock?"

John looked over the screen to Sherlock who was lying back against the pillows reading something in Italian.

"Uh…" John clicked his fingers at Sherlock and was simply rewarded with Sherlock's free hand snapping out and grabbing his hand to stop the movement. "What do you think?" he asked Sherlock, turning the screen around.

"It's a flat John," Sherlock said with all the boredom of someone who moved more in one year than most people did in a lifetime.

"Yeah, he's fine with it."

* * *

**Start of September**

Sherlock, in usual part sulk, part uninterested manner refused to have anything to do with the flat search. John suspected it was more that Sherlock was annoyed with himself for not wanting John to stay than anything else. Sherlock was more than capable of not letting John leave if he really didn't want him to.

Which left just John and Andy visiting the flat one weekend. It was bigger than it had looked in the pictures but getting there was like running a gauntlet.

"You sure about this?" John asked as they studied the pretty decent kitchen. "I mean, you're the one that will be coming home late."

Andy shrugged, "Not much choice. Council tax will kill me as it is without getting a more expensive place."

"Something else might kill you first," John muttered.

"Hey," Andy shook his head, "It seems bad at first, but we'll get used to it. Think of the old place – that wasn't in a great area either and we never had problems."

John nodded. "Okay then."

"Besides, I plan on loaning you out as doctor cum rent boy if things get bad," Andy said cheerfully. "Always useful to have something to trade with."

John laughed.

* * *

"I'm gonna start moving my stuff," John said to Sherlock as he stared up at the ceiling.

No reply.

"I'm going to start moving things," John repeated at a slower speed, "So if you've hidden anything and don't want me to disturb 'stuff' I suggest you pay attention."

All John received was a derisive snort. "As if you would find anything," Sherlock muttered.

* * *

It took John a week to move most of his things over. Andy drove up with his Dad who promptly paled at the sight of the building but, sensibly kept his opinion to himself and continuously glanced out the window to check the car was still were he'd parked it.

* * *

Mid-September

"We are running late," Sherlock muttered as they leapt into the taxi.

"Well _you_ can explain to _your_ mother that _you_ were too busy complaining about the fact she's bringing a date to her own birthday treat."

"It isn't a date," Sherlock huffed sitting back against the seat with a glare.

John nodded, "Sure," he said grinning ahead.

"Shut up!"

"It's her birthday. It's bad enough that Mycroft did a background check-"

Sherlock smiled smugly at the reminder.

"-and you two are bloody scary. So cut the guy some slack if he's braving you two."

There was a long huff, as if Sherlock was just doing it to be contrary and then he suddenly looked at John.

"What?"

"Where have you been?" Sherlock said looking a little thrown.

"Flat. Andy moved in yesterday. I went with him to pick up a few things."

Clearly something in Sherlock's mind didn't add up because he kept staring at John suspiciously.

* * *

How was this his life? One moment he was at the estate and the next he was stepping out of a taxi to have dinner at one of the most exclusive restaurants in London.

John really wished that Mycroft would stop proving a point to Violet's new…friend? Marcus Winters seemed like a good guy from what Violet had said and, more to the point, it was freaking John out, let alone Marcus.

"Argh," John winced as they stepped into the immaculately well-kept dining area, "Your brother is such a bastard," he hissed at Sherlock.

Sherlock was still staring at him suspiciously.

Great. Just great.

"Sherlock," Violet stood, looking stunning in a midnight blue evening dress, with her hair loose for once. "John," she greeted them both warmly. "Marcus, may I introduce my youngest son, Sherlock, and his partner, John."

Marcus looked as if he were doing a hell of a lot better than John was. "Pleased to meet you both," he said holding out his hand.

Sherlock was still staring at John which left John to sigh and take Marcus's hand. "You too," he said with a smile. "Excuse him, clearly I said something fascinating in the taxi and he's taking a moment to compute."

Violet stared at Sherlock beseechingly and then sighed as they sat down. "Mycroft should be here soon. He said he was five minutes behind you two."

John really didn't want to know how Mycroft had worked that one out. "Great," he said brightly.

A glance at Sherlock told John he was on his own here. "So," John looked around, "Spotted anyone famous yet?"

Violet laughed, "A few," she said, "Marcus and I were just saying how lovely it was for Mycroft to manage to get us a table here."

Nice. Yeah, that was one word for it. John smiled tightly.

"Violet tells me you are studying to be a doctor," Marcus said sounding a little nervous. "How are you finding it?"

"Brilliant," John said honestly, "I love it. I couldn't imagine doing anything else."

"Hard work though I imagine?" Marcus asked.

"John's always been good at that," Violet said with a fond smile. "Hasn't he Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored her.

John sighed, "I apologise for what's about to happen," he said and turned away as Violet and Marcus exchanged confused looks. "I am living on the Anderson Estate starting tomorrow. That's the mystery, pack it in."

Sherlock just nodded. "Ah," he said. "I couldn't narrow it down from three possibilities." He turned to his mother, "You look…well maintained," he said awkwardly.

Marcus looked slightly baffled.

"We're not having a row?" John asked tenuously.

"No," Sherlock opened up his menu, "Why would we?"

"I dunno…because you get irritatingly overprotective every other Tuesday?"

"It's Friday," Sherlock said dryly.

"Is that safe?" Violet asked, sounding concerned.

John glanced between the two and suddenly grinned.

* * *

"So, you're not having a go about the flat because you don't want to sound like your mother!" John said behind their menus when Mycroft arrived. "Isn't that a useful and interesting piece of information?"

Sherlock smirked "No John, that's not it at all."

"The Anderson Estate?" Mycroft asked as he sat down, a very serious expression on his face.

"Enjoy," Sherlock said sweetly, reading the appetisers calmly.

* * *

"What are you doing?" John hissed as Sherlock gave John's address instead. "Are you insane? We're in dinner jackets for God sakes."

Sherlock ignored him.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes!" One of the lads hanging in the gang by the building suddenly called out. "Haven't seen you here for ages."

John stopped and glared slowly at Sherlock, "Of course you know the neighbourhood," he muttered to himself.

* * *

Sherlock nodded as he sat on John's bed, having done a thorough inspection of the flat, minus Andy's room because Andy had told him to 'fuck off and come back when I'm not here and don't care'.

Eyeing Sherlock up, John bit at his lip, "So, is that approval?"

That seemed to completely baffle Sherlock. "Why would you need my approval?" he asked.

"I…I want you to come here," John confessed, "Like you used to when I lived at the old place."

That terribly, terribly rare sweet smile crossed Sherlock's lips. "Ah, in that case I suppose we had best test it out," he offered leaning in.

John grinned.

* * *

_I know - John hasn't said anything! But things are going well at the moment so he's sort of trying to ignore the situation and has no idea how to bring it up._

* * *

Upcoming Chapter:

Chapter 25: Remember – It's the Christmas Dinner again, and a lot has changed since last time.


	25. Remember

Chapter Summary: It's the Christmas Dinner again, and a lot has changed since last time.

Warning: Mentions of violence and **angst**!

* * *

Remember

December 8th

A year, a full year had passed since the last time he'd done this. It seemed so strange to think that now as he sat with the Holmes family and ate the soup which was in his opinion a huge improvement from last year's foie gras.

Violet was a little quiet; it wasn't quite the anniversary of Siger's death, but he supposed it was the event that made it seem as if it was. Philip hadn't attended that evening and John privately gave the guy some points for realising it would already be a difficult day without him trying to help.

"You okay?" he asked Sherlock quietly as the servers took their plates.

Sherlock nodded. He'd been on a comedown when John had gone to his, which was actually becoming a little more frequent than John liked. It had been an unfortunate side-effect of living together for a few months that John had seen him in the last few stages of his high and had dealt with a few crashes. At the time it had seemed great, as if Sherlock trusted him with something. Now John couldn't help but wonder if it had simply set a dangerous precedent.

John sipped at the wine again, inwardly battling the urge to just drink and become oblivious.

* * *

_December 5th_

"_You can see why I encouraged you to sign the papers now?" Mycroft asked._

_Another sip, "I don't get it, we're happy! But…" he shifted his grip on the bottle, "This isn't right is it? This isn't healthy?"_

"_No."_

* * *

December 8th

The conversation was stilted now, far more so than it had been last year. Violet seemed lost in a memory, Sherlock looked as if it was taking every ounce of physical effort to keep his backside in the chair, while Mycroft kept looking at them both worriedly.

It was tempting, so unbelievably tempting to pick up the glass and down it. To let everything seem light and easy.

* * *

_November 14th_

"_You must be well pleased!" Andy grinned, "Come on, all you've done is complain that Sherlock sees you as this damsel in distress. I mean you've proved it, proved you can stand on your own two feet. He doesn't have to look after you anymore."_

_John brushed a hand over bruised knuckles. "Yeah," he said half-heartedly._

"_John?"_

_He stood and left because he was not crying in front of Andy._

_He wasn't crying in front of anyone, especially when everyone had warned him, told him._

_Addicts were addicts. They loved their drugs._

_John had been an idiot for hoping it would turn out differently._

* * *

December 8th

"Well, that's over for another year," John said as he and Sherlock walked to the entrance. "Sherlock-"

"Do not ask it again! It has been all that has come out of your mouth all night long."

John bit back the instinctive reply. "Are you coming back with me?" he asked tightly.

"No."

Fine.

* * *

_November 13__th_

_They'd been desperate at Back Door. So desperate that both John and Gay Alf had been helping out behind the bar, which was weird; John hadn't been behind the bar with Gay Alf since his flash tutorial months ago._

_It had been bloody fun working with Andy and Gay Alf. The pair of them together was like watching a comedy sketch show because Gay Alf liked to flirt with Andy to try and get a reaction and Andy liked to try and see how much of an arse Gay Alf would make of himself just to get that reaction._

"_Oi!" someone from the door called over to the bouncers. "Fight!"_

_John never knew why he flew up the stairs so fast; Sherlock instinct he supposed. He'd seen his boyfriend lurking around earlier and, well, it was Sherlock!_

_Still, suspecting and having it confirmed was still a huge shock. Sherlock, by the time John had got up the stairs, out the door and round the corner, was on the floor. How, John couldn't even begin to guess…_

_Actually he could. Cocaine wasn't exactly the most reliable drug in the world._

_He paused for a fraction of a second, his brain trying to absorb the situation when the guy above Sherlock drew his foot__ back._

_Like fuck was that happening!_

_A hand tried to grab him back but he ignored it and grabbed the guy, yanking him back from Sherlock who, in the corner of John's eye, curled and tried to crawl to his feet._

_The guy tried to hit him but John managed to duck away, slamming on his toe and cracking the guy with his elbow before stepping back._

"_Get out of the way," the guy hissed, "That fucking shit owes me."_

"_Don't care," John said firmly, "piss off."_

"_Look here-"_

_John punched him as he stepped close. The guy staggered and then flew at him._

* * *

December 8th

"You all right, John?" Caz asked as John walked up to the building.

"Yeah," John nodded and shook his head when Caz offered him the bottle of White Lightning he'd been swigging. "You?"

Caz nodded and tilted his arm to John, "Good as new!" he said showing off the stitches John had put in a week ago. "You're better than the butcher at the clinic."

John sighed, still not wholly comfortable that he'd agreed to fixing Caz up, but willing to accept that the cocky little git hadn't been happy with going in to see a proper doctor. "You're keeping it dry?" he asked.

Caz nodded. "Course, like you told me. No Sherlock?"

No. No Sherlock. John just shook his head.

"But you've been with him. You're all fancy," he added at John's outfit.

* * *

_November 13__th_

"_Jesus you're handy in a fight," Gay Alf muttered at John. "Wouldn't think it to look at you!"_

_From where he was knelt down in front of Sherlock John glared, unimpressed. "Thanks," he muttered sarcastically. "Sherlock, how many fingers am I holding up?"_

"_I'm not concussed." _

"_I'll judge that," John snapped. "How many fingers?"_

_There was a very long silence._

"_Right, that's it. Hospital-"_

"_No," Sherlock grabbed at him. "Take me to yours. You can keep an eye on me."_

"_You need a scan-" John argued._

"_No," Sherlock hissed, "John, please."_

* * *

December 8th

"Back early," Andy said slowly.

"Yeah," John slid his keys into his back pocket. "Well, Sherlock didn't want company."

"John-"

"Leave it."

* * *

_November 14__th_

_John looked up as Sherlock emerged from his room at about eleven o'clock in the morning. Swiftly he stood up, reaching out to examine Sherlock, who was standing rooted to the spot._

"_Come on," John said gently, "Sit down and let me have a look at you."_

_But Sherlock was scanning him, reading what happened last night in John's bruises and clothes._

"_You shouldn't have done that," Sherlock said slowly. "Stepped in. I knew what I was doing."_

"_Yeah, it looked like it," John said bitterly trying to pull at Sherlock without hurting him; he must have pretty colourful ribs by now. But Sherlock pulled away._

"_I refuse to believe that it was part of your plan to take a beating like that." John turned to watch Sherlock as he picked up his shoes._

"_It was not your place to interfere," Sherlock snapped._

"_Don't be so thick," John replied, "I love you, you blithering idiot! What was I meant to do? Stand watch and hand out fucking cocktails and peanuts?"_

_With stilted, painful movements Sherlock pulled his shoes on. "You were meant to stay out of it."_

"_Coming from you?" John gaped in disbelief, "From the man who walked around the estate reminding everyone who he was, just to warn them off me." _

"_It's different-"_

"_Why? Because it was you that needed help this time and not me? I have told you, I can take care of myself and there are even gonna be the odd occasions where I can take care of you too."_

_Sherlock threw him a filthy look and stormed out._

_What the hell?_

* * *

December 8th

Andy had gone out with some friends and, left alone in the flat, John pulled out the papers that Mycroft had hidden for him while he'd been at Sherlock's. It had taken a bit of ingenuity from John to find a place in the flat that Sherlock wouldn't bother snooping.

Under the hoover that acted as an ornamental piece seemed to have worked amazingly well.

But then Sherlock hadn't really snooped for ages, John thought miserably. It had never been the same since the fight. It was as if Sherlock couldn't bear the idea that he was the one that had needed help, that he'd lost his role as the protector.

He was a fucking idiot.

It was like walking a tightrope with him now; one wrong word could close Sherlock up completely. So John started drinking, noting how Sherlock became softer when John became loose and silly and obliviously sweet.

That was fucking dangerous, John knew it. Yet he couldn't seem to help himself. It was all so much easier.

And when he was sober, it was as if Sherlock had stopped caring quite as much about John seeing him high. There was still no chance of finding Sherlock when he was in the heights, but…Sherlock was now far more comfortable about the drugs around John.

Whatever tenuous hold he'd had over Sherlock's usage was gone. Completely and utterly. That was bad enough; to think that John had somehow missed the window of opportunity, but worse was the fact that Mycroft had been right.

John had been an excuse to keep using, not a reason. Sherlock was an addict, he loved the rush.

There was no way John could compete with that and god did that hurt.

* * *

It wasn't common practice to do your practical years in the army. John sat, curled on the sofa re-reading everything again, the numerous documents scattered on the sofa next to him. He'd had to send off more forms last week and fuck if it hadn't torn at him that he'd had to put Harry down as his In Case of Emergency instead of Sherlock.

If John was honest he couldn't even see them making it to a year the way they were going at the moment.

It was a bit convoluted, the way it all worked. Hopefully with training and briefing any loose ends would be tied up and he had a chance to meet with his trainers in April.

He needed it now. Needed to get away, to escape the mess that was his life at the moment. The drink, the drugs, Sherlock.

Worse, the pretence; the act that they were happy because it felt so real. If they pretended all their issues didn't exist it was as close to perfect as John could imagine.

But the issues existed. Nothing changed that.

The door opened.

"Forgot your keys?" John asked looking up slowly.

Sherlock was in the doorway.

It took every single fibre of John's being not to look down in panic at what he was reading, but the colour draining from his face must have been enough because Sherlock darted forward and snatched the letter up.

"Don't-"

_Oh God._

This was not how he wanted Sherlock to find out.

Sherlock tossed the letter on the table. "I thought that idea was dead and buried," he snapped. "It's a stupid idea."

John looked at it and then up at Sherlock. "Why are you here?" he asked wearily.

"I forbid you," Sherlock announced coldly. "You do not look into this-" he broke himself off suddenly, looking around.

"Forbid?" John breathed. "Forbid?""

"Why-" Sherlock was looking frantically at all the paper work spilling off the sofa.

"Tough fucking luck," John yelled, leaping to his feet. "How dare you? I have never forbidden you from doing anything. I watched and bit my tongue because I trusted you-"

"Trusted?" Sherlock's attention immediately snapped to him, "What's that meant to mean 'trusted'?"

"Clearly you were full of it!" John hissed.

Sherlock kept glancing between him and the paper work as if he couldn't work out which one to concentrate on. "This is sheer stupidity," Sherlock declared finally. "This is you debating marching off and being in danger-"

"Unlike you walking off into an alleyway and shooting up?"

"You won't do it." Sherlock stood to his full height, looming over John threateningly. "I will make sure of it. Mycroft will ban every application every-"

"That's hilarious considering your brother brought the paper work for me to sign in August."

_No._

_Take it back._

But the words were out and Sherlock's eyes went wide with shock. John could almost see him recoil from what had just been said. Could see the desperation to find another meaning.

And then there was betrayal, hurt. Sherlock stared at John as if John had just announced the sun was about to die.

"I…Sherlock…"

Sherlock stepped back, shaking his head. "No," he whispered, "No. We were fine then."

John looked away from the sight, "We've never been fine," John refuted. "We're just fucking good at pretending."

Sherlock stumbled back against the door.

"I am your excuse," John whispered. "Your justification. And I can't say no to you. This is it, this is the only way I can help you."

"I don't need help," Sherlock roared at him. "Why can't you understand that? I do not need help."

"Yes you do!"

Sherlock grabbed at his hair pulling and then suddenly stopped.

"Undo it," he said suddenly sounding cold.

John shook his head, "I can't."

"Undo it," Sherlock demanded. "Or I will show you just how bad this could be."

Staring at him in sheer disbelief, John shook his head slowly.

There was a single nod and then Sherlock spun and slammed out of the flat.

* * *

So...update next week :P

Thank you to Eowyn and lutz-chan for their help with these chapters.

* * *

Upcoming Chapters

Chapter 26: Every breath is a choice p1

Chapter 27: Every breath is a choice p2


	26. Every breath is a choice Part 1

**Ok, so I owe people an apology - joking about cliff hangers is a bit not good! So I felt guilty and am now updating.**

* * *

The title is from novel Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk

"You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be."

* * *

**Warning - this is not a happy chapter. I don't want to put the full warnings because otherwise it will spoil things but I will add them to part 2 when I post so if you are unsure wait until tuesday and have a look at the warnings then.**

**And a huge thank you to Eowyn and lutz-chan for going over these chapters endlessly with me. They're both saints!**

* * *

**9****th**** December**

**01.04****am**

This was beyond cruel, even for Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced at his mother's pale face as she walked through the hospital with him, following the directions they'd been given at the reception desk. His eyes were bright and he had a momentary flash of memory of a similar expression on her face when the nurse had taken them to the waiting room to wait for news about his father.

"Was John with him?" she asked, clearly trying to hold back her tears.

"No." Mycroft had no idea where John was. When he'd stopped at the flat, braced to give John the news that Sherlock was in the hospital, John had been absent, his phone on the table.

He'd called Michael and Andrew though, and asked them to update him when they found John.

His mother didn't need to know that though. "John has no idea. I wanted to wait until we knew more."

His mother seemed to nod at that and then rushed forward as they spotted a doctor leaving Sherlock's room. "Excuse me," she called out. "I'm his mother-"

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to will himself into calm and then followed her.

**11.54****pm**

Try as he might, John couldn't seem to focus again. He'd collected up the paper work and tried to read but his mind just wouldn't stop.

What the hell had Sherlock meant by that?

Throwing the paper work down onto the table John nearly screamed as documents fell out of the pile and spread across the table, some crashing to the floor. Resisting the urge to kick at them, all John could do was bend over his knees and rub his fingers to his temple to soothe the building ache.

The words wouldn't leave John's head. With any luck Sherlock would get into a fight and beat out his aggression on something, get beaten just as hard back and that would be it.

Unless…

John replayed their conversation over in his head, starting to pant in panic.

Oh God, what if Sherlock had gone out intending to…

John grabbed his keys, leaving everything as it was.

**01.16****am**

As a rule Mycroft had never been one for hospitals. He admired the order, the clean lines, stark sheets and hygienic smell. In all honesty, even the staff was commendable.

It was the patients he disliked. Sick people, ill people, bleeding people; all of them ruining the neatness of the building and Sherlock was no exception. There was something dreadfully uncomfortable about seeing his brother still against the crisp sheets, his usually wild hair bedraggled with whatever fluids had previously saturated it. Everything about him was far too still.

Uncomfortable, yes, that was a good word to use.

His mother sat next to him, hand pressed onto Sherlock's still one. "What could have driven him to this?" she asked, pressing a kiss to his hand and stroking it with her thumb.

Driven him to what exactly? Mycroft wanted to ask. They had no idea what Sherlock had been trying to do. Mycroft was no idiot; if Sherlock had intended to take an overdose to kill himself he would have. As it was this was merely a heavy dose with a few questionable results.

"You know what the doctor said-" he begun placatingly.

"I don't care," his mother said firmly, sounding almost in tears, "It was the attempt. He's never tried to take too much before."

Too much. What had Sherlock been trying to do? Had he had a change of heart last minute? As for why, well…Mycroft looked away.

There had been papers all over John's flat. Papers with military insignia and details. It had probably taken Sherlock less than three seconds to work out what was going on.

Mycroft sighed, "I'm afraid he may have discovered John's plans for next year."

Wet blue eyes looked up in confusion. "I don't understand, why would John's plans-"

"John is going into the army next year," Mycroft said frankly, staring at Sherlock's hand that was intertwined with their mothers.

Mycroft watched as his mother stared at him and then down at Sherlock.

"What have you done?" she whispered in horror.

**0.58****am**

Eddie had told him about the club once or twice but John had never felt the urge to venture out to it, even out of morbid curiosity. It was one of those bloody awful ones that seemed too dark, too loud and was filled with people who couldn't seem to focus properly. It was hot and sweaty in the most dangerous of ways, the beat thudding in his throat.

Pushing his way through, John scanned the crowds, searching for a familiar face. It took a while, and every time he moved he was faced with people his own age dancing against him.

There.

With a new lease of determination, John pushed his way through for a better look.

**01.20****am**

Outside Sherlock's hospital room, Mycroft paced the door. Uncomfortable seemed to be the word of the night, he thought bitterly watching the people as they walked by. It seemed far more sanitary in Sherlock's room.

In his pocket, his phone started to vibrate and with a glance at the caller ID, he answered it.

"Michael," he greeted, trying not to look at a wheelchair as it passed by.

"Found John," Michael said, sounding as if he was in a rush somewhere. "Me and Andy-

Andy and I, for heaven sakes the boy was training to be a doctor!

"-are getting a taxi now to find him. He's at a club somewhere drowning his sorrows."

Typical. It seemed both his brother and John were turning to substance abuse.

Mycroft stared at the phone and wondered if perhaps his mother might have had a point, loathe though he was to admit it.

**01.12****am**

John hesitated. He'd been watching for a while now, being buffeted by the people around him as he tried to keep within sight; no mean feat when faced with the flashing lights and cavernous shadows of the club.

But it seemed Sherlock was no-where to be seen and John couldn't decide what that meant. It was so stupid; marching here in a bout of self-righteous fury only to lose it at this stage. Feeling utterly useless, John made his way back towards the stairs, climbing up into fresh air and the exit.

It took a few seconds to adjust. Nervous, he looked around, hunching his shoulders as he tried to picture where he was in relation to everything else.

Actually he wasn't that far from Sherlock's place.

For a moment John wondered if it would be best to go home and make a point of not talking to Sherlock, but the idea of leaving it like this, of leaving it all so unfinished drove him over the road and to the phone box, part of him convinced he was the world's biggest loser for folding so easily.

It still worked, which was becoming a rare thing now. Stepping in the booth and ignoring the smell of weed, John dialled Andy's number.

"Hello?" Andy asked tentatively.

"Andy, it's John. Look I'm not gonna be back in tonight – the place is a mess so I just wanted to-

"John, where are you?" Andy asked sounding frantic.

Frowning at his reflection in the glass, John looked behind him, "Out, why-

"Tell me where you are and I'll come and get you."

"Aren't you trying to get into Lucy Sholes knickers?" John asked, toying with the wire.

"John," Andy sounded deadly serious, "Where are you?"

"Outside Trevor's."

"Where?"

"Eddie knows it. Look I'm fine. Seriously, what's the big deal?"

"John…come home now."

"Why?" There was the start of a nervous thump in his chest.

Andy let out a hesitant breath, "I…"

"Andy?"

"It's Sherlock. You need to come home and I'll take you to the hospital."

Hospital?

"What-" John could barely breathe.

"He had a really bad trip, they aren't sure it was an intentional attempt to overdose-"

Oh God.

John slammed the phone down, gasping as if he'd just broken into air and out of water. For a long time he just stared at his fingers, still curled around the plastic phone knowing it would be embedded in his memory for as long as he lived.

All he could hear was the volume of his breath. The sounds of laughter and shouting outside seemed to dim and fade away as John struggled to get himself under control.

How could he?

Choking out a sob John leaned against the dialler, desperate not to lose it. Under the panic, the sheer weight of terror, there was a rising, building need to be angry at something, anything.

At Sherlock, fucking idiot, lying in a hospital bed. And Mycroft for insisting Sherlock needed to hit rock bottom. At himself for listening.

This wasn't going to work. This wouldn't snap Sherlock off of the drugs.

It was unfair! It was so fucking unfair he thought, staring at the laughing bastards who just walked past as if John's life hadn't suddenly been wrenched at yet again-

John lifted his head and stared ahead. Then, wiping his eyes, turned, left the phone booth and marched back into the club.

**02.23****am**

As the doctor had predicted, Sherlock didn't stay unconscious for long. In fact Sherlock seemed to stir far earlier than anyone had guessed.

What that said for his tolerance of drugs Mycroft shuddered to think. He watched the doctor leave, a little pale in the face and throwing Mycroft a sympathetic look.

"Get out!" Sherlock spat.

Mycroft closed the door behind the doctor and turned to his baby brother who was mercifully alive, awake and pulling off anything that had been checking the rhythm of his heart with a fractious temper.

Chaos reigned again.

"Must you make this into one of your histrionic fits?" Mycroft asked with a disapproving cluck, "Get back in the bed-"

"Go away," Sherlock was like a wet cat; all claws and fury. "You have meddled enough."

"It was necessary-"

"Necessary?" Sherlock paused in crawling out of the bed, "How? How was it necessary? You could have sent him to the best hospital in the world, to the States or to fucking Timbuktu but no; you had to send him to the army! There is a war Mycroft! He won't stay out of it-"

"Sherlock-"

"You've done it!" Sherlock was almost screaming at him now. "Everything I ever wanted you've taken. Happy?" he asked as he stood, swaying a little at the sudden vertigo of his changed position.

"Sherlock-" their mother tried to reach out for him, but Sherlock shook her off, pulling away and picking up his clothes that were folded neatly on the spare chair. "Mycroft's actions were indefensible-"

"What?" Mycroft stared at her, feeling the first pinpricks of genuine annoyance, "I explained this. He will not get clean until he loses John. John is his excuse and justification-"

It was as if his words suddenly electrocuted Sherlock who, in the midst of yanking his gown over his bony shoulders, jolted. "What?" Sherlock rounded on him. "What did you just say?" he asked.

Mycroft eyed him distastefully, not at all sure where Sherlock had developed this exhibitionist streak. "You are using John to-"

"No…" Sherlock stared at him, walking forward a little and fixing Mycroft with one of his searching stares. "Word for word, what did you just say?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together, knowing even as he did it that it wouldn't help. Whatever mistake he had made in his speech had already been spotted, examined and the evidence had clearly been damning.

"You convinced him," Sherlock breathed. "When we'd fought. You took him to one side and started whispering poison in his ear-"

"The truth-" Mycroft started to defend himself, puffing out in frustration.

"Liar!" Sherlock hissed, eyes alight with fury.

**01.30****am**

This time John moved with far more purpose, anger propelling him through the writhing bodies and up the steps to the booth that held the sycophantic bastards crowding around without a care in the world. Pushing his way through, John glared down at the reclining figure on the bench.

"I want a word," John hissed loudly, jaw set and eyes blazing with fury.

Victor Trevor took a moment to focus on him after laughing at something one of his suck-ups had said, clearly it took him a second or two to place John but, once recognition struck and he blinked in surprise, a lazy, self-satisfied look passed over his face and he shifted, spreading himself wider as if trying to look even more relaxed. "Oh," he smirked. "John. How nice to see you," his eyes trailed over John.

"Now."

But Victor seemed in no hurry. He continued to look at John in a way that would have had him squirming in embarrassment if he weren't so fucking furious. There seemed to be a moment of disappointment when Victor saw that John didn't flush and, sulking, Victor sat back and picked up his drink. "Ten minutes," he offered blandly.

That wasn't good enough but, as John took a step forward, Victor shot him a rather pointed look and John looked about at the sheer amount of people surrounding them and, reluctantly, nodded.

**02.25****am**

Sherlock's hissing accusation still rang out and behind him their mother's face fell in disappointment.

"Mycroft," she gasped. "You encouraged John?" she asked, as if not seeing the logical progression of the thought.

Sherlock was scrambling to get dressed now, uncaring that he was with company and Mycroft pinched his lips together at the sight of him stripping naked, as if that was a perfectly acceptable thing to do in public.

"Sit down," Mycroft ordered, but Sherlock was ignoring him. "Make him see sense," he snapped at his mother. "He cannot leave now, he needs more tests-" he added and watched with some triumph as she swung back to Sherlock, clearly concerned.

But Sherlock was leaving. "Where's John?" he demanded, doing up his shirt as he walked forward.

"En-route."

**01.48****am**

They went through one of the staff doors and immediately it was quieter. Still hot though. Victor led them down a hall and opened a door with such fake politeness that John wanted to stomp on his foot as he walked through.

John looked around as he entered, noting how well furnished it was, the desks and the safe at the side. Rich, thick carpet and the permeating smell of sex.

Instead of being cowed John could feel himself becoming wound even tighter.

"So," Victor smirked as he closed the office door behind him. "What can I help you with?"

"Have you seen him tonight?" John demanded, turning to face him. "Did you sell him anything?" he added fiercely.

There was a calculated look that threw John for a moment he was so unsure what to make of it. "Why?" Victor asked. "Did you want to get him a present?" he asked mockingly.

John pulled a face, "No…he tried to overdose-"

"Oh!" Victor laughed, "So you came in like the big hero, wanting to scold me? Sorry. I haven't sold to Sherlock in ages."

"You did," John hissed, unwilling to let the anger go. "You plied him with it-"

"He made his own choice. Do not come down here blaming me that he's a fucking junkie," Victor sneered. "God no wonder he OD'd if he had to listen to that whinging, whining-"

John stepped forward, furious. "I'm not the scum that sold stuff to him in the first place."

"You're insane if you think he was clean before I met him," Victor hissed. "And don't you dare act as if you're better than me. We all know how you spend your evenings looking down a bottle for a magic answer. Runs in the family apparently."

Incensed, John threw a punch revelling in the feel of skin and bone under his fist as Victor staggered back. His own anger must have made him slow or stupid because seconds later Victor walloped him back, a hard punch that sounded like his ears had popped. The force of it made John spiral backwards, his cheek in agony. Then a hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck as if he were some naughty puppy and John found himself slamming hard against the wall, crashing into the red paint and struggling to grasp for breath.

"You stupid little shit!" Victor advanced as John slid down, his body on fire as he struggled to suck in air, panicking. "You broke my fucking nose you dick! You think I was just gonna let that go?" he grabbed at John's hair, forcing him to look up and into Victor's furious red face, "Think I was gonna ignore the way you looked at me as if you were better than me?" he asked sneering.

John refused to be cowed but it didn't seem to matter as, instead of waiting for a reply, Victor kneed him in the face, letting go of John's hair to let him crash against the wall again, spitting blood this time.

Everything hurt and his vision swum as he sunk to the floor, coughing against the carpet and trying to curl up to stop the pounding ache that was racing through him. Hands grabbed him and shoved him down the rest of the way until John was sucking in deep ragged breaths that tasted like the foul carpet under him.

It hurt too much to move and he couldn't even work out where he would move to, the world was spinning so much.

"You really ain't," Victor continued. "And I can prove it," he added in a dangerous voice.

**02.26****am**

"From?" Sherlock demanded, the last button finally pulled closed.

Relieved Mycroft nodded fractionally. "He's with his friends," Mycroft said, watching as Sherlock's shoulders relaxed a little and he turned his attention to the door. "Wait-"

Sherlock ignored him; yanking out his phone and thumbing at the buttons with sharp dexterous jabs that he knew were beyond Mycroft.

Child.

Mycroft watched as a petulant Sherlock dialled a number (probably Andrew first) Mycroft mused. Then Sherlock's face screwed in annoyance as clearly one, then the other went to voicemail.

Evidently Andrew and Michael had other problems at that moment.

**02.03****am**

John curled in on himself as he lay on the rug, panting and trying to calm the panic from being so severely winded. He needed to get up, but God did it hurt. All his earlier adrenaline had faded and he felt exhausted.

Victor had vanished; his triumphant smug voice had been gone for a while now. John reached out and gripped at the carpet, intending to pull himself up and start to drag himself to his feet.

As soon as his head stopped pounding and he was sure he wasn't going to throw up when he moved.

Then footsteps approached.

John tried to struggle to his feet quicker, turning to Victor, not trusting the bastard half as far as he could throw him. He needed to see…

When he spotted what was in Victor's hands his mind suddenly stopped spinning and, though nausea was settled deep in his throat, there was only one word he could think.

No.

Gasping, John started to crawl backwards, unable to take his eyes off of Victor's slightly dazed, triumphant gaze.

**02.27****am**

"Sherlock-" Mycroft called as he followed him through the halls, dimly aware of their mother chasing behind. "You need to get back into bed-"

"Go away," Sherlock sneered as he stormed through the corridor, neatly avoiding those that milled around them and leaving them no other choice but to almost crash into Mycroft.

This was ridiculous.

**02.04****am**

Victor was on him and John struggled frantically, desperate to escape. If he kept moving Victor would find it impossible to aim properly. A hand gripped his wrist, trying to force the other one into the same grasp and pin him steadily but John kicked and hit for all he was worth.

This wasn't happening.

Giving up on that method, Victor just started stabbing.

The needle was yanking chunks through his arm though as John kept moving. Deep scrapes as the needle dragged through flesh that left behind greasy, jagged waves of pain that made John want to scream and gasp, eyes pricking with tears. There was a click as it broke off and John felt a momentary wave of relief-

Then Victor reached for another one, wrestling John down and slamming his head against the floor until John saw stars and all he could hear was a dull buzz.

**02.28****am**

"Sherlock!" their mother pushed past Mycroft to chase after Sherlock a little more frantically, "Come home and we can think about this properly. You need to slow down and think!" she pleaded.

Sherlock paused.

Mycroft backed off a little, knowing that his presence wouldn't help and then started in surprise as his phone rang.

Ah, John's friend Andrew.

**02.10****am**

The needled slipped in and Victor let out a breath of excitement. John sucked in a terrified breath at his obvious delight, mind already knowing what was about to happen.

"You're gonna love this," he whispered in John's ear. "No more worries kiddo."

It was like being hit with a sudden wave. Everything was crashing and out of focus and too loud and bright and dim and blurred.

He couldn't breathe.

* * *

Part 2 will be up by tuesday.


	27. Every breath is a choice Part 2

**The title is from novel Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk **"**You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be."**

**Warnings for both this chapter and last chapter - Drug use, Violence, Forced Drug Use and the aftermath of those. This continues immediately on from last chapter.**

**AN - I would reply to the reviews but most of them were "update!" or "Tuesday get here now" or variations of that, so it seemed nicer just to update! ;) Thank you so much for the fab response though - it's been amazing to see, I just didn't really know how to reply! (especially as ff gets mad if you try to say thank you to everyone and accuses youof spamming! Grr!)**

* * *

**02.29**

"Just come back to mine," his mother pleaded, ignoring Mycroft as he took his call. "We'll find a way, I promise."

Sherlock hesitated, glancing towards the entrance. He had no idea where John was and, in truth if John were with friends, perhaps it was better to leave him alone tonight. Besides his head was still pounding and his feet felt vaguely unsteady underneath him.

It didn't matter; he had to find a way to fix this, to apologise.

But tonight? Would that be better or not?

He hated that his mind couldn't work it out.

"Come on sweetheart," his mother added, coming closer, "We'll go home and find a way to make sure he doesn't have to go. We'll talk about it."

It was tempting.

Turning he opened his mouth to reply and stopped dead.

Mycroft was ice white (bad news), pulling the phone down from his ear (stunned, informed over the phone, unaware of actions), his mouth was trying to formulate a response but he seemed to be having some difficulty (doesn't know how to start the sentence).

"Sherlock?" their mother asked, turning to see what he was looking at. "What's happened?" she breathed.

Bad news, stunned, informed over the phone, unaware of actions, doesn't know how to start the sentence. Terrified eyes, widening fractionally in guilt.

No.

Please no.

Sherlock could feel his heart rate, already arrhythmic, start to pound, the blood rushing in his ears as his stomach seemed to fall in an odd anti high. It was if his feet had become rooted to the ground and he was heavy, unable to run, unable to not see.

John.

"When-"

"Now." Mycroft breathed, voice wavering.

Sherlock turned and ran.

Through the people lingering at the entrance, pushing through those who did not get out of his way, heedless of their injury or complaint. Then, down the ramp and towards where they brought the ambulances to the A&E entrance. The night sky lit up by the flashing lights that cast garish shadows and turned the scene into a vision from a nightmare.

There; Andy and Mike were getting out of an ambulance, both looking pale and then a stretcher…

John.

John on a stretcher.

John unconscious.

The paramedics and staff were moving quickly; sharp movements as they all seemed to be calling to each other, shouting instructions.

Sherlock couldn't hear them over the roaring in his head and the unending scream of the sirens.

All of a sudden his legs couldn't hold him and Sherlock stumbled back, Mycroft's hands grabbing him about the waist to keep him up and steady and Sherlock could do nothing but stare.

Oxygen mask. shirt open, pressure pads.

He'd flat-lined.

John's heart had stopped beating.

He'd been in trouble, in danger.

He'd needed help.

The agony of it nearly bowed him over, pulling at Mycroft's iron grip and wanting to scream, wanting to do anything, but utterly incapable of making his body obey him.

"Calm down," Mycroft was whispering over and over again. "Just calm down."

John was on a stretcher.

He was hooked up to machines and people were dashing around, moving him into the hospital at a frantic speed. And then he was too far away and Sherlock couldn't…couldn't…

What if-

Ripping himself out of Mycroft's hold Sherlock followed, chasing after them as they sped through the corridors that stank of blood and vomit from the night until they got into the main building again.

They went through the double doors and a security man barred the entrance, forcing Mike and Andy ahead of him to stop.

No, they couldn't take John-

"Sir you cannot-"

Sherlock ignored the nurse and then snarled when security folded his arms, blocking his way.

He was in no state to get through them tonight. Helplessly he stared through the door's blurred glass window, hoping beyond hope for a glimpse or a doctor or something…

"What-" Mycroft started to say.

As Sherlock turned to listen, to question and demand, Andy launched himself at Sherlock.

It was sheer fury that drove Andy; fists flying, legs kicking. Anything, any blow he could land he did and Sherlock just staggered back under it, his body weak and useless from his earlier abuse and the sudden turn of events.

Then hands were pulling Andy off of him and Mycroft was behind Sherlock, holding him upright as much as he was keeping him back.

"I warned you," Andy screamed at him, fighting in Mike's grip and looking murderous. "I fucking warned you what would happen."

No.

Mycroft, perhaps sensing he wasn't going to launch at Andy in response let him go which left Sherlock to just sit where he had been standing, the artificial lights suddenly swaying his vision; flashing then dimming.

"No," he breathed, "No…"

"He didn't take it," Mycroft said kneeling down by him. "Victor Trevor dug a needle into his arm."

Why…Sherlock's thoughts couldn't get past that one question. Why, why, why-

Dimly he noted Andy ripping himself out of Mike's arms to pace the room.

"What was it?" Mycroft asked standing as their mother walked in, "What was he given?"

Sherlock looked at him and then up at Mike who had sat, hands clasped in a prayer position.

"Speedball," he said quietly. "It's speedball."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

**04.26**

Two hours and thirteen minutes. Enough times to have a heart beat nine thousand, three hundred and ten times. Enough time to have left John's flat and taken more cocaine than usual to be spiteful. Enough time for John to have been forced at the wrong end of a needle.

Two hours and fourteen minutes.

"Can I ask which one of you is a family member?"

It took a moment for the words to sink in and for Sherlock to realise they were being directed to their party. Mike looked up from where he'd been sitting, startled and Mycroft seemed to have been tracking the doctor from where he was sat on a chair next to Sherlock's position on the floor. Their mother, on Mycroft's other side made a small sad noise that Sherlock couldn't decipher.

From his position leaning against the wall, Andy glared at Sherlock once and sighed.

"I'm his partner," Sherlock replied hoarsely, standing up from the floor stiffly.

"I'm afraid I need a relative." the doctor said looking at the chart.

Any other time Sherlock would have ripped it from his hands, now he just stared and shook his head, feeling as if he were floating underwater.

He wasn't allowed to know? But it was John.

"I'll call Harry," Mike said after a moment. "I'll get her here."

"Is he okay?" Andy demanded.

_Are you okay?_

How often had John asked that…tonight? How had it only been seven hours ago?

The doctor nodded hesitantly, "I'm afraid I will need to wait until a family member is here to give a full account of Mr Watson's prognosis. But he is stable now."

Next to him his mother breathed a sigh of relief and Sherlock leaned against her slightly, not exactly sure when she had stood up. "How long will it take his sister to get here?" she asked stroking Sherlock's back in what he assumed she thought was a soothing manner.

"Couple of hours," Andy said tonelessly as Mike left the room.

"Do you want to go home?" his mother asked gently, "You shouldn't even be up."

"No," Sherlock said, without fight.

"Here," Mycroft reached over with a glass of water, "Drink this."

**07.51**

He sat, perched on the edge of a chair, feeling the weight of Mycroft's gaze on him. His mother had gone for a coffee and Andy was snoring in the chair.

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the doors and he didn't dare let himself think.

Statistical possibilities. John had never used before. Ever. To have a sudden hit of speedball would have been vicious, his body would have rebelled, confused and tearing at itself to compensate.

Don't think.

Mycroft reached out and put his coat over Sherlock's shoulders.

Need a good coat, Sherlock allowed himself to think dimly. Mycroft's smells.

**09.30**

Harry Watson looked pale as she walked in. Andy scrambled up but she ignored him and marched straight over to Sherlock.

And slapped him.

Exhausted Sherlock just stared up at her.

"Are you Miss Harriet Watson?" the doctor asked, having being summoned by Mike when Harry had gotten in the taxi from the station.

Harry nodded, staring down at Sherlock.

"Would you like-"

"Give it to him." She turned away. "All of it to Sherlock Holmes. You should have done that in the first place," she said firmly, sinking down onto a chair. "And for God sakes let him in to see John."

The doctor turned to Sherlock who, staring at Harry in disbelief, carefully unwrapped himself from the chair and stood.

Harry nodded at him.

Thank you seemed so utterly inadequate an expression.

**09.37**

Helplessly Sherlock plucked at John's sleeve, the hospital gown showing the bandages that had needed to be wrapped around his torn arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, crouching by the bed suddenly, hands tracing John's shape in the bed. "I'm so sorry."

He needed him, god did he need him. Lifting himself up again he leaned over John and buried his lips in John's hair, breathing in the smell of him and then nearly sobbing in frustration when antiseptic, alcohol, blood and the smell of a damp carpet got in the way, burying John's natural scent. He wanted to gather John in close, touch him until he could completely absorb him, keep him safe and whole. But there were too many drips and machines keeping an accurate measure of John's heart.

High blood pressure, seizure culminating in cardiac arrest. Mike had been forced to do CPR for John to keep him alive the extra few minutes and they had been forced to use defibrillators at the scene. No-one knew what the damage was, how long John had been without air.

It could have been worse. If there had been more heroin than cocaine then John would be dead.

"Wake up," Sherlock begged John, brushing his lips against cold cheeks, "Please, wake up."

The machine beeped in reply.

**10.05**

"I'm afraid until he wakes up we simply won't know." The useless doctor said. "The coma could be due to lack of oxygen but more likely due to the sudden chemical imbalance caused by the drugs. Either way the damage is difficult to predict."

It was said in a way that that had Sherlock turning to him. "It was a forced administration," he hissed. "John is not an addict."

"We need to move him down to the ICU and take him for tests. He will have a catheter fitted, and we will have to monitor him closely. The longer he stays like this the more at risk he is from contracting pneumonia and atelectasis**."**

Not happening. Sherlock stroked John's hand carefully.

"Should he be in this state for a long time we will start to discuss exercising options with you if you wish."

Sherlock nodded.

"You must also understand that coma patients are not depicted accurately on television. He will move about, his breathing will speed up and slow down. He will not suddenly return to consciousness – it will be a steady process and he will be aware of very little the first few times he wakes up."

"Which will be when?" Sherlock asked, staring at John's sleeping face.

"I'll know more once we have run the tests."

Reluctantly Sherlock sat back as the staff came in and pulled the railing up to keep John on the bed and started to do whatever it was they did with the machines.

"Go home," the Doctor suggested, "This will take a few hours. You can come back this evening and sit with him."

**16.00**

He was starting to get double vision, his skin was crawling.

On the table in front of him was cocaine, hidden from John. The idea of so much as touching it made his- well his skin was crawling already. It made him shudder though, feel sick to his stomach.

The image of John, forced to take this, kept hammering its way through his mind. Tears blurred his already terrible vision and he put his head in his hands, staring down at the carpet.

A break. That was all he wanted, a few days and weeks without so he could help John-

It was an unequivocal fact that he couldn't help John in this state. The hospital staff would be far too aware of what a-

Sherlock closed his eyes.

-what a junkie looked like when they needed a hit.

The sentence made his mind stop. Slowly he lifted his head, hands sliding down his face to rest in a prayer position, cupping his mouth and nose on either side.

It had hurt John and he couldn't stop.

It had hurt John and there was nothing he could do. Using or not using would leave him useless for John. Both risked having him being dragged from John's side.

If there was a switch he could just flip; turning off the urge and the high, he would do it immediately, without hesitation or thought.

He wanted to be clean. Desperately wanted it suddenly. He wanted control; the control that had been slipping through his fingers since John had confronted him in the bathroom all those months ago.

He'd wanted it when John had asked why Sherlock wouldn't fuck him, had desperately wanted it because he'd been waiting for the argument that John had never used.

"Why do you want the drugs more than me?"

The words had been haunting him, even though they'd never been spoken, because it wasn't true and yet he could think of no convincing argument to show John that wasn't what he meant.

Then a month later, dinner with his mother; his mother introducing John alongside his future profession. Showing him off and being proud. There had been a jealous flicker at the back of Sherlock's mind.

What could she use to introduce him? My son; drug addict, con artist and poker player.

There was more to him than that.

"_You could be so much more."_

John. So sincere, so absolute in that belief.

He wanted that.

The fight. The terrible fight outside the club; the one where John had rescued him. Stood up to a man that had a knife in the back of his trousers and all Sherlock had been able to do was watch because his muscles were cramping and aching, spasming in confusion.

He could have lost John that night. He could have lost John so many times over.

Sherlock looked down at the table, at the substance on it.

How terribly stupid, he thought, to risk everything for such a small, innocuous looking bag of powder.

He trailed a finger along the bag suddenly snorting with bitter laughter. How ironic – the one time he actually did need to take it, the one time he was forced to take it, was the one time that made him realise it was no fucking different to every other time.

He'd never been in control of this.

But the fact remained; he could not go through withdrawal until he was sure John would be alright. He would not risk being taken from his side.

But the idea of injecting it seemed heinous. Disrespectful in the most horrific way.

He snorted it in the end, eyes streaming as he did so.

**20.53**

"Wake up," Sherlock whispered against John's ear. "I need you. Please. Wake up."

John's breathing was ragged. It was easy to delude himself into thinking it was a sign he was about to open his eyes.

"For me," Sherlock pleaded, stroking his hair. "Look at me."

A shift, muscle spasm from inactivity. John remained silent, his features slack. It was wrong, desperately wrong for someone who was so open, so expressive. So multifaceted and fascinatingly interesting. The blank sleeping expression was hateful.

"It should be me," Sherlock trailed a finger down the smooth skin. "I'm the one who does it night after night. I'm the one who deserves it. Not you. Never you," he pressed his face into the side of John's head. "You were never supposed to be touched by this," he pressed his lips together as his eyes threatened to spill. "I was meant to keep you safe."

Gasping in air, he shook, trying not to cry. "I wanted to keep you safe," he breathed helplessly. "You were mine. From the minute I saw you. My mystery, my challenge. My surprise. Everything I didn't realise I wanted. Desperately want." The sob forced its way out. "I should have walked away," he confessed, "Last year I should have walked away"

He pressed a kiss to soft skin, tasting John finally and unwilling to move and give that up. "You're right, you were right. One of us needed to walk away. I should have done it. I should have loved you enough to do it."

"Wake up," he begged. "Wake up and I'll do anything. Anything." He smiled, brushing John's hair. "I'll make you tea and buy the good biscuits. I'll walk to the Chinese and pick up those bloody duck pancakes you insist taste so good. I'll let you watch James Bond, I'll take you to see the new one at the cinema or whatever is on at the moment."

Sherlock stared down at John as his breathing evened out. "I'll bribe the entire British army to keep you in that fucking hospital and out of danger," he added.

"No offer to be clean then?"

Sherlock tightened his grip on John warily and then turned to face Harry.

"No," he said sitting back, eyeing up the extra coffee in her hand.

She sneered at him.

"I won't bargain that with him."

Harry frowned, "Why? I would."

"Because that's unconditional now," Sherlock sat back, an iron grip on John's hand. "As soon as he wakes up, as soon as I know he's fine."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Harry muttered, handing him the coffee.

He went for her wrist instead. "I have just had to shoot up to keep myself aware enough to sit here by his hospital bed while he lies there in a state that the same drugs I use caused," he threw her wrist back, accepting the coffee. "Do not talk to me about what I am capable of doing."

Harry stared at him horrified and nodded slowly.

"He'll wake up soon," she offered.

Sherlock ignored that. "Have you told your mother?"

"Yes."

Sherlock snorted, "Rushing over is she?"

"Doesn't want to crowd him," Harry shook her head, "Apparently when he's aware and awake she'll come rushing over."

How had John sprung from that woman?

"Why did you let me in?" Sherlock asked suddenly looking at her. "You and I are not at all fond of each other."

Looking unimpressed Harry glared, "Cheers," she huffed. "But…if it were Clara I'd want to be there. And John….it's John," she shrugged, "I can't imagine you not being here now."

Unsure of how to respond Sherlock stared at John's hand.

"My baby brother, for some god unknown reason, loves you," Harry leaned back in her chair. "What more is there to say about it? The daft arse loves you so much he would do anything for you."

Sherlock looked up, half expecting a lecture in what he should do in return but Harry looked at him in surprise and shook her head, "What?"

* * *

Confused blue eyes opened and Sherlock froze in his seat leaning forward.

"John?"

The eyes reluctantly fluttered shut.

"Anything," Sherlock whispered fiercely, "Absolutely anything, John. Just keep your eyes open next time."

He then sat back to wait.

* * *

Next Chapter: All in the waiting


	28. All in the Waiting

The title comes from T.S. Eliot's poem East Coker and reads

_'But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting."_

* * *

There was a strange heavy pressure on his hand keeping it in a certain position. A thumping ache resounded through his head and the idea of moving seemed like an impossible effort.

When he opened his eyes it was just white. Bright white light that hurt his eyes and lanced through his skull with a painful intensity. John gasped, sucking in air as he closed his eyes again and winced.

"Shush," a gentle familiar voice soothed. There was a strange press of almost wetness on his hand. "You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

Trusting the voice, John ducked back down into the darkness.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes someone was moving his arms. An unfamiliar person was pushing at his leg and it was beyond uncomfortable. He tightened up in protest, whimpering slightly.

Then there was a touch to his hair, a soothing stroke and a gentle press of lips that made him hum in some satisfaction.

"And how many need to be done?" Sherlock was asking.

None. No more. He could move his leg if he wanted to, he just chose not to. John shifted and looked up at Sherlock whose hand stroked a little firmer.

Half way through the woman's speech, Sherlock suddenly stiffened and looked down.

Sherlock had dark circles around his eyes. John's brain couldn't process any more than that. But he could see those ever-changing eyes widen slightly as Sherlock suddenly ducked down, his face level with John's.

His head hurt so much.

"He's alert," Sherlock declared, looking over John's head.

"I know it looks that way but-"

"Do you think I don't know when he's awake?" Sherlock snapped with frustration, "Go and get a doctor, now."

Then he looked back down, "Stay with me," he whispered. "Concentrate on my voice."

"Hurts," John gasped, trying to turn into the pillow.

"Your head?"

John wanted to nod but the idea of that much movement seemed torturous. "Yes," he answered as Sherlock looked up again and seemed suddenly fixated.

"John?" a new voice asked, "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," John swallowed. Too many voices, too bright.

A hand touched his chin, cupping it as the doctor leaned in close, pressing a thumb by John's eyes.

Too much.

John rolled back into darkness.

* * *

There was a steady noise. It kept going on and off, on and off like an alarm.

Someone should really turn it off.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes and stared at the heart monitor blankly. Then followed the wires down, down and onto his own chest.

It hurt to move his head, but he risked it, looking about. The hospital room was empty.

Hospital room? What the hell was he doing in a hospital room?

Turning his head to the side, John frowned the gauze tacked on to his arm with tape. Hesitantly he brushed his fingers over the fabric, wincing when the pressure made the wound underneath sting.

What the hell had happened?

In the foot-well at the end of the bed was a chart sticking out and John tried to lean forward then hissed as it pulled the wires that were stuck onto him and into him. His head spun and his stomach protested so he just lay back, trying to keep as still as possible until the nausea faded away.

It was easier to do with his eyes closed.

Footsteps approached softly and John kept his eyes closed, determined to not throw up on whoever was approaching. It seemed to be strangely tempting karma if he threw up on a doctor's shoes.

A gentle finger stroked the back of his hand, "Relax," Sherlock said in possibly the softest voice John had ever heard him use.

"Why, what are you planning on doing?" John muttered suspiciously, still fighting down the nausea.

"John?" The gentle fingers became an iron fast grip on his wrist. "John?"

"Shush," Sherlock's voice sounded far too loud. John wanted to say something else but was suddenly terrified that if he opened his mouth he'd throw up.

Hands were stroking his face, "Open your eyes."

Normally John would have told Sherlock where to go, but he sounded so desperate, so pleading and uncertain that John opened his reluctant eyes to look up.

Sherlock had moved around the bed to face him and was staring down at him with what looked like sheer wonder and relief. To John's stunned amazement Sherlock's eyes were bright with tears.

"You okay?" John asked reaching up with his good arm to touch Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock caught the hand and nodded into it, pressing a deep long kiss to the skin on the back of his palm.

"Get Doctor Meadows," Sherlock ordered suddenly looking at someone on the other side of John. He squeezed at John's hand for another second or so then focused, "What's three plus four?"

"Seven," John squinted up at him, "Are you feeling alright?"

"Does your head still hurt?"

Still? "Yeah," John winced, "Feel sick," he confessed.

Sherlock stiffened as if something had just occurred to him. "Anything else?" he asked sounding almost nervous.

John coughed, "Like?"

"Ahh, Mr Watson?" John watched as Sherlock backed off fractionally. "I need you to tilt your head for me."

A man, Doctor Meadows John assumed from the clothes and Sherlock's earlier request, came into his line of sight and John obediently did as he was told and suffered through the doctor checking his pupils and responses for certain parts of his brain functions.

"You know who this is I assume?" Doctor Meadows asked with a friendly smile.

"Yeah," John glanced at Sherlock who seemed to have pasted himself to a wall.

"Okay, I'm going to have to send you for a few tests, Mr Watson, but I'll give you two a few minutes. What's the last thing you remember?"

What was the last thing he remembered? It all seemed so vague and blank. Fuzzy as if his memories had been coated in a thick layer of paint and he could sort of see vague outlines underneath, but nothing that made sense or formed a cohesive picture.

"Um…going to dinner?" John asked hesitantly. "I think…I met you at yours?" he asked Sherlock who suddenly looked as if he was carved from stone. "Did I get food poisoning?" he asked turning back to the doctor.

"You can't remember any more than that?" Doctor Meadows asked.

John shook his head and flinched as a muscle in his arm started to cramp a little. It felt suddenly wrong. "I…my arm hurts," he gasped.

There was a look exchanged between Sherlock and the doctor that made John start to worry as Doctor Meadows examined John's good arm. "Can you describe the pain?"

"Feels wrong. Buzzing."

The Doctor put John's arm down onto the bed with a sigh and looked at Sherlock again who, looking extremely pale, nodded slowly.

"I'll give you both a moment. Mr Watson, if you need anything you can press the button-"

"Yeah, I know," John stared at Sherlock beseechingly, barely noting the doctor leave. "What's going on?" he asked, hating how his voice shook.

Sherlock sat on the bed, seemingly fixated on John's gauzed arm. "John…" he closed his eyes and looked away.

Oh god, it was bad then. Terrified John reached out and grabbed at him, at his shirt, fingers clenching in the material desperately.

"We had a fight," Sherlock said haltingly.

What else was new recently?

"You…for some god unknown reason, went after Victor Trevor," Sherlock stared ahead at the wall.

Really? John blinked and stared down at his body under the sheets. A touch to his lips revealed that there was indeed a slight throb. His entire head just hurt so it was hard to distinguish one pain from another.

Sherlock turned to him, seemingly taking a deep breath. "What I'm about to tell you, I need you to stay calm."

That didn't help. John's hand clenched even tighter around Sherlock's shirt in fear and Sherlock gently brought a hand down to tug it loose and entwine John's fingers in his own.

"He dosed you," Sherlock said frankly.

Dosed? What did-

Oh god.

His heart started to hammer in panic as a dim memory of a red carpet and the smell of boots, sex and ash filled his mouth.

John slowly looked down at his arm, the injury suddenly becoming clear.

"John," Sherlock said with such fierceness that John turned his head back to meet Sherlock's intense stare. "Look at me, just breathe."

"What was it?" John begged, voice wavering.

Sherlock licked his lips hesitantly, as if he needed the saliva. "Speedball," he said hoarsely.

Speedball. Heroin and cocaine.

Oh god almighty.

Sherlock leaned forward suddenly, dragging a hand through John's hair. "You are fine. I promise. You're fine."

He said it with such fierce sincerity that John just pressed his lips together and nodded, scared beyond anything he'd ever felt before as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead.

* * *

He felt too hot. Sweaty and sick and everything hurt.

But he was shivering.

Doctor Meadows face was pulled into a tight frown as he examined the test results.

"Am I…?" John couldn't even bring himself to say it.

Doctor Meadows sighed. "I'm afraid it would appear you are in withdrawal yes. It can take only one attempt for your body to crave the drug."

John looked away staring at the machines.

"There are options for dealing with this," Doctor Meadows said slowly. "However, given how far through you are and that this was a first time use, I would suggest that we simply continue as we are. I am reluctant to suggest any other option given the chemical imbalance that lead to your coma."

John didn't look at him, couldn't he found. He could hear the pity in the doctor's voice and it made him want to curl up and hide away.

"John? We can discuss the options if you wish to?"

John shook his head, the wires blurring as his eyes filled.

It wasn't fair. It was beyond unfair.

"I'll send someone by to take you back to your room. Would you like a few moments to-"

"Get him out," John said, hating how small his voice sounded.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sherlock. Get him out of the room," John curled his hands around the sheets. "Or don't take me back there."

* * *

John was awake.

Sherlock stared out of the window, through the blinds and at the entrance below. Snow was falling uselessly to the pavement, sucked up by the puddles and sticking to the coats of the people walking in and out.

There were no words to describe the sheer relief. The awe that John had actually spoken to him properly, been alert and bright and focused.

In his pocket his phone vibrated again. A flurry of texts questioning the one he had fired off to everyone who needed to know that John was awake and seemed to be staying that way.

Five days before Christmas.

John was becoming something of a Christmas present now.

Pulling himself together he turned, glancing at his watch.

They should be back by now, even factoring in the extra length of the doctor explaining the results to John. The doctor needed to speed it up, after all, John must still be in shock at having woken up twelve days after his last memory and with no recollection of how he'd been-

Injured? Attacked? Hurt? Drugged?

It was necessary that Sherlock be with him. Vitally important that he explain everything to John and sit with him as John processed what had happened to him.

Doctor Meadows walked in without John.

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded, striding over.

"John has requested that you go home."

Tough. Sherlock sniffed; bored by the suggestion that everyone seemed to feel the need to raise. "No," he said loftily.

The doctor shifted looking dreadfully uncomfortable and Sherlock stared, a sudden sinking feeling hitting.

It hadn't been a request.

Dimly Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said again, as if the repetition would make it so. "No, John…" he licked his lips, trying to get his head around the idea.

John didn't want him here.

"It happens sometimes," Doctor Meadows said gently, "Patients wake up and want to be on their own. I get the impression that John doesn't want to talk to anyone at the moment."

No. No, John needed to talk to Sherlock…

"What did the test results say?" Sherlock asked trying to follow.

Doctor Meadows sighed sadly. "John is awake now," he said slowly, "I'm afraid I can't tell you."

Stupid!

Frustrated Sherlock raised a shaking hand to his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"He's out of danger," Doctor Meadows said in the same calm voice. "Perhaps, while John is thinking, you might want to look into your options."

"Eight days ago," Sherlock muttered, "You saw my eyes after I came out of the bathroom," he pulled his hand down, "You never said anything."

"Do I have to?" Doctor Meadows asked. "I've never seen a person look so much as if they're walking to their death every time you get up to take it."

"I cannot afford to look into those options now," Sherlock hissed. "Not when he's still in the hospital."

There was the strangest look that passed over the doctor's face. "Look into withdrawal," he said firmly.

"I've attempted it before-" Sherlock muttered, "I hardly need a crash course, I know the withdrawal for cocaine-"

Doctor Meadows shook his head fractionally.

Not cocaine? But-

John.

"His arm-"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Doctor Meadows said pointedly.

Understanding, Sherlock nodded.

* * *

Outside the hospital he stopped, leaning over against a wall, hands pressed to the freezing brick and stared down at the slush.

No. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair-

Furious he kicked at the wall, banging a fist against it over and over again until his hand was sticky with blood and ached fiercely enough to compete with the horrific ache in his chest.

It wasn't fair.

* * *

He'd broken a minor bone in his hand.

His mother sat with him silent in the taxi and then in the house until, unable to bear it anymore, he turned to her for the first time in more than a decade and sobbed on her shoulder.

* * *

John curled up on his side, blinking away tears. The pain killers had dulled the ache a little but his body still felt wrong. Confused and as if it were rebelling against something.

"John?"

Harry. He lifted his head slightly to get a glimpse of her and then collapsed back onto the bed. In response she walked around, dragging a chair over so she could sit by him and hold his hand.

"You remember?" she asked softly, "At Christmas, how Dad would make us sing those stupid Christmas carols?"

"Jingle Bells, Batman smells," John smiled, shaking. "He had a shit singing voice."

"Dreadful," Harry agreed. "Every dog from miles around must have howled in protest."

John nodded, eyes filling. "I wish he were here," he whispered. "I miss him," he added, his breathing changing to ragged huffs of air.

Harry nodded. "Me too," she shifted closer. "I can just see it," she smiled weakly. "John Watson what do you think you're doing? Get up boy, Match of the Day's on."

John laughed wetly. "Is it?" he asked hopefully.

"How the hell would I know?" Harry smiled. "I've been sitting by the bloody phone biting my nails for a week."

John stared at their joined hands. "Mum's not coming then?" he asked and then immediately hated himself for even bothering.

"She came a few days ago," Harry said quietly. "She'll be here again tomorrow."

Shocked, John looked up at her face.

"She's a bitch," Harry shrugged, "But even she's not that bad." She squeezed his fingers. "It was like having our old mum back for a bit. She told you she'd make bangers and mash with the good gravy when you woke up."

God he wished she were here. It was stupid, but he did. "Won't last," he whispered.

Harry sighed, "She and Phil have had long chats apparently. He's good for her. You never know, it might work out."

John nodded, not really believing it.

"John…" Harry took a deep breath, "Why did you ask Sherlock to leave?"

"I'm in withdrawal," John said frankly.

"So?" Harry asked.

"Clearly you've never heard Sherlock Holmes rant about how useless people are when doing this," John stared up at the ceiling as he turned onto his back. "It's fine," he said.

Harry was silent for the longest time.

"So…the lengths you'll go to in order to escape buying me a Christmas present," she teased. "Bad luck John, we've still got four days to go."

John groaned.

* * *

Sherlock stared down at the plate of food in front of him with some trepidation. Soggy toast, soaked from butter because he'd been looking at it for so long was the least of his problems.

"I'm sorry who are-" his mother said, sounding angry in the hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the plate away as Harry Watson stormed in.

This was getting to be an annoying habit.

"He threw me out," he said, standing and taking the plate to the sink. "Do not start."

"What happened to your hand?" she asked staring at the bandage.

Sherlock shifted his hand so it was covered by his sleeve. "That is none of your business."

"What did you say to him?"

"About?"

"Withdrawal?" Harry glared furiously, "Useless?"

He'd never said-

Oh, the bloody idiot!

* * *

Midnight.

He'd done this once before; broken into John's room and stared at him. Then his partner had been still and silent in the moonlight; a comforting peace that had settled Sherlock's thoughts and made him reluctant to give in.

John wasn't still this time, nor was he asleep, but he was unaware of Sherlock watching him.

Making a deliberate noise he saw John stiffen in reaction, try to draw himself in and make himself as small as possible.

Sherlock didn't say a word as he sat on the bed and then curled up behind John, spooning him.

"Brave," he whispered in John's ear. "The bravest man I know."

And John pushed back against him, clutching at Sherlock's good hand as he shook his head.

"Scared," John whispered back.

Sherlock nodded. "And that is why you are strong. You face it, head on. You always do."

John turned suddenly and Sherlock leaned back a little to give him room, wrapping his arms around him when John pushed his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

It was beyond uncomfortable but Sherlock just held onto him.

"You're shaking," John whispered into the silence.

It was ridiculously stupid, the whole thing was so absurd that Sherlock huffed a laugh against his hair. "Yes," he said simply.

"You should go," John said sounding strangled.

Sherlock wriggled down the bed, shifting them both until he was level with John. "Your mother wishes to stay with you at Christmas while you recover," he said, resting his injured hand on John's side.

John just made a disinterested noise.

"If you want me to stay I will," Sherlock offered.

"Why?" John tucked an elbow under his head, "Where else are you gonna go?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock took a deep breath, "Mycroft has found a facility."

John stared, eyes wide and barely breathing, "Sherlock-"

"It will take me much longer," Sherlock continued. "And I would prefer to…to start sooner rather than later."

Before he could delude himself again.

"I'll help-"

No. Sherlock shook his head, "I can't do this with you," he confessed. "And," he took a deep breath, "You have your studies to return to."

John suddenly looked down. "Sherlock-"

"I know," he shifted a bit closer. "I know," and pressed his lips to John's.

* * *

Next Chapter: Spring


	29. Spring

Chapter Summary: It's been months since John was in hospital and Sherlock left to deal with the withdrawal from drugs.

* * *

Note at the end!

* * *

Spring

"Yes," John rolled his eyes as he pinned the phone to his shoulder with his ear and fumbled with the lock. "Mum-"

"It's a wonderful recipe darling, you should really try it-"

Giving up with the lock, John bent to put the books on the floor. "I don't doubt that," he said placatingly, "but-"

"Phil thinks it's delicious so it's male friendly too."

What the hell had he done to deserve this? His mother seemed to think he was a bloody trainee chef now. It had almost been better when she hadn't wanted to talk to him. "Mother!" he pulled the phone to sit on his ear properly, "I am not making some poxy tart with vegetables I didn't even know existed three minutes ago."

"It's not a poxy tart, it's a vegetable tart and it's healthy," was the stinging reply.

'I don't care,' he mouthed at the phone, taking a deep breath and trying the lock again, now that his arms weren't loaded up. "I know you're trying to help-"

"Your cooking skills have improved so much-"

God help him.

"And I really think you'll find the tart delicious. I was watching Masterchef and-"

The door now open, John started to slide his medical books into the flat with his toe, half listening as his mother banged on about whatever cookery show it was that had captured her interest this week. On the sofa Andy was watching TV and wordlessly held up a chocolate cake with a smile.

God save him from interfering mothers. If it wasn't his own trying to make John turn into a health freak it was Sherlock's dropping round baking from her cooking class she'd signed up to.

Though the image of Violet Holmes walking through the estate always made him shudder. With Mycroft's latest promotion he was almost sure the man was trailing them all somehow.

Glaring at it he pulled the cake and the plate it sat on away from Andy and opened one of the cupboards looking for the tin that Violet had dropped round a month and a half ago during the court case.

"-so I told Harry that the ice-cream really didn't go with the summer pudding, I mean who would think to put mint chocolate chip ice cream with fruit? Your sister, there are some days where I really wonder with her."

"Mmm," John said flipping the cake into the tin and then frowning at it as it sat looking miserably the wrong way up. "Dreadful," he added sarcastically.

"If you think I can't tell when you're being sarcastic John I have news for you."

"Mum!" he shrugged and pressed the lid on the tin, "You put mint leaves on fruit, maybe that confused her."

Andy turned his head slowly, "And she wonders why you ended up gay."

John flipped him the finger and reached into the fridge, pulling out a yogurt and biting the lid to open it up.

"You are giving Harry far too much credit," his mother sighed down the phone, "Honestly, you are more refined than she is."

John paused from drinking the yoghurt from the container. "Yeah," he looked at what he was doing and shrugged.

"So I'll email you the recipe," she said, sounding far too proud of the fact that she knew how to email.

"Great."

"And you'll try it, because I will ask you to cook it one day."

That threat had stopped being valid about thirty recipes back. "I know you will," he soothed, "Say hi to Phil for me."

"You'll call on Friday,"

"Yeah, bye Mum!" John hung up the phone and then pressed the button multiple times to make a point before putting it down on the kitchen counter with more force than was needed.

"So," Andy smiled, "What shit fancy food are we having tonight?"

"Shut up." John leaned against the counter and used his finger to gig out the yoghurt. "Otherwise I'll tell your Mum that my Mum teaches me how to make healthy food."

"Yeah, but I didn't spend days in a coma and then have her stay with us for a blessed week." Andy's smile was tight at the awful memory. "She's not that bothered."

"I swear," John tossed the empty pot in the bin and walked over for his books, "it's like she's trying to make up for years of not giving a toss in a few months. If she comes here one more time I'm…"

"You're?" Andy prompted sweetly.

Deflated John picked up his books and closed the door. "I'm…I'm gonna tell her that Ready Steady Cook was your favourite program growing up."

"Hey, don't drag me down with you," Andy yelped, "I've had to put up with my mother interfering for years. I never dragged you into it!"

John slumped into the sofa. "I'll make something in a sec," he groused.

Andy nodded, "Any news?"

John sighed, "Nope. Same as ever. 'He doesn't want you worried'. 'He'll come and see you once he's done'," John shook his head, "We'll pretend that he didn't hound the staff at the hospital night and day when I was recovering but God forbid I should ask for a progress report."

"You've become a lot more cynical," Andy tutted taking a sip of orange juice.

"I now talk to my mother twice a week. See a correlation?"

* * *

"So Kirsty's going away for a cooking course next week," Mike started as they sat in the pub.

"Yes," John rolled his eyes, "You can come over for tea. I swear you lot only talk to me now for the fact that I can actually roast a chicken."

"Nah, it's the potatoes," Andy made a sound he usually only reserved for the fittest girls he shagged, "Beautiful stuff. If I were gay you'd so be my house husband."

Probably best not to point out that short of actually having sex, that was more or less true.

"Hey," Paul shrugged, "We use Andy for his lack of shame-"

"Thanks mate."

"-Mike because he's a sucker for a sad face and I was used shamelessly for my car," he reached over to give John a patronising pat on the back, grinning from ear to ear. "We had to find a use for you sooner or later."

"We used you for your car?" John screwed up his nose, "I don't really remember this."

"I drove Kenny to see his girlfriend," Paul reminded him.

"Ah," fair enough. "Same again?"

They all nodded as Mike finally started to protest that he was not a sucker for tears.

"Three pints and an orange," John ordered at the bar, shaking his head as he overheard Andy shriek in feigned outrage at something Paul said.

* * *

"I don't like stairs," Andy told John firmly as John helped him back home later that night. "At all. Let's get a lift."

"Okay," John nodded going up the stairs behind Andy, bracing himself in case his friend fell.

"I mean it. With the music, really shitty cheesy lift music."

"The shitiest," John agreed, watching Andy struggle with the top step.

"I know you think it's a bad plan," Andy slurred, "But we could put it right here. And then I wouldn't have to do steps."

Relieved that his staggering flatmate was now safely on the landing, John nodded, "Okay," he said in as normal a tone as he could manage. Then he leaned against the wall, trying not to be too obvious in his amusement as he watched Andy aim the key.

After the sixth attempt Andy turned to John. "It's not opening," he announced sadly.

Shaking his head, John took the keys and slotted it into the lock, opening the door and wrapping his arm around the frame to poke at the light switch. "After you," he said cordially.

"Damn straight," Andy agreed and staggered into the flat.

John followed him, trying not to laugh as Andy wobbled over to his door and clung to it for dear life as he manoeuvred the thing open. Retrieving his phone from where he'd left it, John frowned, suddenly seeing the six missed calls and three voice messages.

_19.18_

_John? It's Violet. Could you give me a call when you get this message?_

_19.47_

_John? Call me back when you get this._

Frowning at the slightly urgent tone in Mycroft's voice, John skipped to the next one

_20.05_

_John, I assume you have failed to understand that a mobile phone is meant to be mobile, hence the name. Leaving it at home severely misses the point of owning such a device._

Mycroft was being snotty. What the hell was going on?

From his room Andy's dulcet tones could be heard, snoring away. John walked over and shut the door as he dialled Mycroft's number.

"What's happened?" he asked reaching out for his keys.

"John," Mycroft sounded as if he'd just woken up. "It is three in the morning."

John rolled his eyes, "Well how am I meant to guess when you choose to finally power down for the night?"

Mycroft huffed and there was a sound as if he were turning over in bed. "Sherlock's back."

John's breath caught, "At Violet's?"

"We are all here. He is…quiet."

Mycroft didn't sound gleeful or relieved at the statement, despite the fact that he often offered monetary rewards to John if he could get Sherlock to be quiet for ten minutes.

John glanced at the clock and frowned, trying to work out a good route. "Twenty minutes," he said, conceding it would take a taxi to get to the house.

"I'll send a car," Mycroft said, "If I'm awake I may as well ensure my staff are being productive."

John nodded, "See you in a bit," and then hung up the phone.

God almighty he was never, ever working for Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft met him at the door in a very formal pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown that looked like something from a Victorian novel. All in all it was as if the man was fully dressed.

Though for Mycroft to be out of his full suit attire was like the plague was coming.

He nodded John in and pressed a finger to his lips, taking John into the kitchen and shutting the door carefully.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked.

"I have no idea," Mycroft sat heavily in one of the chairs. "I have never seen him like this."

"Like?" John asked, feeling his stomach start to sink.

"Docile," Mycroft replied, shaking his head slowly and dragging a hand over his head.

"You said you were monitoring him," John folded his arms.

"I was," Mycroft snapped, "But Sherlock has always been able to tell when I am watching over him. It was suggested that I leave him alone properly," he looked thoroughly disgruntled at the idea. "As it was I could only bribe the most useless in the place. They merely informed me of his medical prognosis and whether or not he was staying out of trouble."

John watched him, "And?" he prompted, "You must have some thoughts on what's wrong."

"A number of them," Mycroft looked at John. "Ranging from him simply trying to punish me for some imagined slight to Sherlock feeling abandoned, bored and lost."

"Imagined slight?" John echoed in disbelief.

Mycroft pulled a face. "He may still have some negative reactions to my involvement with your future career," he hesitated, "The last time I saw him he was infuriated that I had dealt with Mr Trevor."

Not really wanting to go down that path of thought again, John nodded. "So what you are telling me is that he is either insanely angry or really hurt by what's happened recently."

"If you wish to be simplistic, yes."

Simplistic? If only.

John looked up at the ceiling. "Is he in his room?" he asked after a moment's thought.

"Yes, why-" Mycroft hummed in disapproval. "John, do not go up there."

"Why?" John lowered his gaze back to Mycroft. "Either he's upset and I need to be there or he's mad and we need to have one almighty row."

Mycroft stood slowly and for a moment John had a terrible feeling he was about to be threatened, but Mycroft just bypassed him and started to fill up the kettle.

"Go," he said, sounding tired.

* * *

Sherlock was out of bed, standing by the window when John walked in. He didn't so much as flinch when John closed the door.

God, he'd forgotten just how much he loved this man. How much he loved to watch him. But he was thin, painfully thin now and looked so ethereal in the night's light that John was half afraid he'd just fade away.

"Have you and Mycroft had a nice chat?" Sherlock asked, his voice playing with the last word in a dangerous manner. "What decisions have you made today?"

"You should have told me," John said hesitantly, walking further in. "Before you left, you should have told me that you knew. You knew I didn't remember."

"There was nothing stopping you from telling me," Sherlock didn't turn. "You had plenty of time before I left for the clinic."

John sighed. "I didn't want the argument," he said honestly. "I…you were leaving and I didn't want to fight with you."

Sherlock smiled bitterly, staring through the window and not at their reflections in the window as John had originally assumed.

John sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Sherlock's silhouette and the shadow he cast on the rug by the bottom of the bed.

The silence hung between them heavily and John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to collect his thoughts. Part of him had stupidly hoped that Sherlock would return happy, alert and understanding.

Stupid. That wasn't Sherlock and John wouldn't have him any other way.

"I was gonna go before I met you," John said, not really understanding why that was the first thing he chose to say.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, voice devoid of emotion.

That was all he said.

John swallowed, sucking in a long loud breath. "I didn't know what to do," he said miserably.

Sherlock remained stonily silent. John stared hopelessly at the unyielding back and clenched jaw and felt something shift in him.

His shoulders dropped in defeat. "I'm sorry," he said, looking away and at the opposite wall to try and reign himself in. "It was unfair. Stupid. I should have told you, if not before then straight away when I came back to the flat. I…I was scared. There were so many days when it seemed to all be going so well and," John frowned, "I dunno, I didn't want to ruin it."

Sherlock lifted his jaw slightly, narrowing his attention on something else through the window. A glance told John it was still something outside that had his attention.

"And…" John closed his eyes, not really sure why he was saying any of it; Sherlock was making it exceedingly clear that he wasn't interested. "I didn't want to risk that you would talk me out of it."

A muscle in Sherlock's neck twitched. Probably in anger John decided.

"I missed you," he confessed haltingly. Sherlock made absolutely no response. "And…I know I betrayed you, lied to you but…I don't want to lose you completely. So…"John took a deep breath and stared at his hands. "If…we could be friends…" he didn't even know how to finish that sentence his heart was thumping so wildly in protest.

"Friends?" Sherlock asked blandly.

John slumped at the lack of interest in Sherlock's voice.

In the months that had passed since he had last seen Sherlock he had tried so hard not to think about him; not to worry what a sober version of Sherlock would be like. The secret dread that, with his mind no longer addled with drugs, Sherlock would take one look at him and wonder just how high he had been to have been that bothered with John.

"We were friends once," he heard himself say.

Because, Jesus, what was the alternative? Never seeing Sherlock again?

That was just not going to happen, couldn't happen.

"How would I have talked you out of it?" Sherlock asked suddenly. The sudden return to the topic made John gape for a moment.

"I…I dunno."

"Hypothetically," Sherlock prompted.

"I…" John shrugged, "Bargained with me, gone and got hold of people who had terrible experiences, I don't know. You'd have found something," he added a little petulantly before shaking himself and remembering that he was in the middle of being dumped, not being teased.

"Bargaining?" Sherlock asked, sounding as if he was terribly bored with the subject. "Such as?"

What was the point of making them rehash this? "Getting clean," John gave an example; the one that had always terrified him.

Sherlock pulled a face in the glass but it was gone far too fast for John to analyse. "Or?"

God he'd never even made it passed that thought. "I honestly don't know. I'm sure you would have found something."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, his previously broken hand giving him no difficulty now. "You lied," he said pointedly.

Well of course he had! Had Sherlock been in cloud cuckoo land for the past ten minutes while John had been awkwardly apologising for that?

"Yeah," John sighed, "I told you I'm so-"

"You can get out of it."

"What?" John asked completely thrown off balance.

"There's a way that you could get out of it," Sherlock finally met his eyes in the reflection.

"Well…" John shrugged, "I have to pass basic training. I flunked it last time. They wouldn't train me if I was going to be a danger to their soldiers."

Sherlock let go of his hands and John had the strangest notion that he was disappointed about something. He watched as Sherlock minutely shook his head and looked away again.

Not really sure what the entire exchange had been about John plucked at the bed linen uselessly.

"Look I…I get that I messed this up." John traced Sherlock's initials into the quilt with his finger. "I know that," his voice wavered traitorously, "And I know I broke your trust-"

He stopped when Sherlock let out an aggrieved sigh.

"Right," John stood shakily, hurt and knowing he had only himself to blame. "I…I'm sorry-" he started to say as he stumbled to the door.

"You do not make this easy," Sherlock snapped.

John turned, "I-"

"This pity parade is beyond dull," Sherlock added contemptuously. "I was under the impression that you were going to storm your way up here and start yelling."

"Why…" Had he missed something. "Why would I?"

"You threatened to do so in the kitchen."

In the…John felt incapable of thought. "Wait...you were spying on us?"

Sherlock turned from the window finally. "I simply wanted to ensure Mycroft didn't conscript you into yet another branch of the military or give you double O status."

"Wh…" John just stared, "I…" he shook his head, sure he must have just had a stroke or something. "What the…you want a fight?" he asked stunned.

"Yes," Sherlock announced as if that should have been obvious. "I believe we were somewhat excelling at the activity before Christmas."

"But I'm agreeing with you!" John protested.

"I know, it's exceedingly dull." Sherlock was almost pouting. "I'm certain you were never this dull before I left."

John flinched and looked away. "How would you know?" he muttered.

"I got clean, I did not have a personality transplant," Sherlock almost barked at him.

"I don't want to fight," John stared at the floor.

"Fine." Sherlock stepped away from the window. "I want you to fail basic training and not go into the military and in return I'll agree to keep our relationship as it has been for the past year."

John froze.

And slowly started to nod.

Sherlock tipped his head back and let out an annoyed hiss. "Stop acting like a cowed puppy," he glared, shaking his head.

"So you don't-"

"I'm bored!" Sherlock almost screamed at him. "You are not helping matters."

"So…what, that was crap?" John asked, feeling his temper start to stir suddenly. "You don't want me to quit?"

"Of course I do."

"I…" John shook his head, "I can't even begin to follow this," he muttered in some disbelief.

"I want you to not want to go."

"Tough!" John snapped.

Hurt flashed in Sherlock's eyes, enough that John was almost scrambling to apologise, but mixed in with the expression was something else.

Delight.

"I didn't-" John said, back pedalling slightly, aware that he might have just fucked himself royally.

"Tough?" Sherlock was stalking towards him now. "Tough. You want to go. Why do you want to go?"

"B…I didn't just do it to escape you."

"But that was a reason?"

"No…yes…" John scrubbed at his forehead, "We weren't working. I didn't know what to do."

"So you said," Sherlock was circling John now. "Why do you still want to go?"

"Because-" Fuck it, fine. "Because I am not living in your shadow. I don't want to be staring up at you ten years from now with the same hero worship I had when I was eighteen. I want to…I want to be your partner."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And being blown up is the way to do that?"

"I'm not gonna go hopping on the fucking bombs!" John exploded. "I need something that is mine and mine alone and you, with all the will in the world, are never gonna let me have that."

"Train in Australia then," Sherlock snapped. "That's far enough away isn't it?"

"I want to be useful."

"You're training to be a doctor!"

"That's hardly going to help me the next time you get caught cheating at poker!"

Sherlock paused momentarily. "I do not get caught cheating at poker," he said after a second, as if John had accused him of being a serial killer.

"Fine," John snapped glaring at him.

"I have never been caught-"

"Fine," John threw up his hands.

Sherlock stepped back, eyeing him closely. "So this is a long term plan?" he asked suspiciously.

"I guess, "John shrugged.

"And you're…" Sherlock floundered for a moment, "relatively certain you won't get blown up or shot?"

"I'm not intending to," John looked at him, worried the drugs had addled his brain.

"There are things though, aren't there. Red Cross things. An agreement about medical staff in war zones."

"We'll just have to hope people enjoy following the rules as much as you do," John quipped sarcastically.

"We'll have to set new ones," Sherlock announced, stalking off to the bed.

"Great, no…what?" John wondered just how many times Sherlock could make his head spin in twenty minutes. "Why would we need rules?"

Sherlock stopped and turned around, staring at him.

"Oh," he wrinkled his nose, "You were serious about the friends idea?"

"I…" John sat on the chair at the edge of the room. "My head hurts," he muttered into his hands.

"John?"

He lifted his head.

"Get up, shut up and get into bed."

Obediently John stood and walked to the other side of the bed watching Sherlock bend over it to flip the covers back.

"I…" John stared at him. "We aren't breaking up then?"

"No," Sherlock said as if John were being the strange one.

John's mouth dropped, "I thought…you let me think we were just so we could have an argument?" he asked stunned.

Sherlock paused and looked up at him. "You signed the next 'x' amount of years of your life away without telling me and lied to me for months about it."

"You let drugs nearly ruin our relationship!" John snapped back, folding his arms.

Sherlock stood. "You didn't push to come and see me while I was recovering. Not one single attempt at a break in," he added with some disgust.

"Well…you annoyed my mother," John said, struggling for a reply.

"You conscripted mine and now she always sides with you."

Something like a smile was starting to tug on his lips. "You drank all my tea."

"You cost me three hundred pounds in cocaine. It's non-refundable," Sherlock replied looking amused.

John knelt on the bed, watching Sherlock closely. "Call it even?"

Sherlock nodded. "Once you make up for my monetary loss."

Smirking, John made his way over the bed so he was by Sherlock. "I could pay it in kind?" he offered.

There was a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes and he shifted as if nervous. "Soon," he nodded.

Deciding not to push the issue John sat back on his heels. "I'm sorry I didn't break into the clinic," he said sincerely. "It never even occurred to me."

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "You should get changed," he said leaning over to pull out some pyjamas. "If you're staying."

John nodded, slightly surprised. They'd never slept together in anything but underwear or…well…nothing at all.

Scooting off the bed John winced as Sherlock flicked the side light on and pulled his jumper and t-shirt over his head, then shucked off his jeans.

Was he meant to get rid of his boxers too?

John turned to look at Sherlock, expecting him either to be avoiding his gaze (leave the boxers on) or watching with amusement (get them off now!). Sherlock however was staring.

Following his gaze John looked down at the scars on his arm. They weren't exactly huge or deep. In a few years it would probably have faded to being almost unnoticeable.

Self-conscious John grabbed for the pyjama top.

Sherlock said nothing and John just yanked the bottoms on as well before dumping his clothes in a pile by the bed.

* * *

Sherlock was so thin. Dangerously so. John could feel it through the fabric of his pyjamas as he curled into him.

For a long time they just lay next to each other before John turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, privately wondering if either one of them would get any sleep and how long it would take for them to give up the charade.

Sherlock turned over, rolling to face him, an odd expression on his face.

With no clue as to why he did it, John lifted his arm and Sherlock ducked under suddenly, head on John's chest, face pressed into the soft material there. John turned his head down, pressing a kiss against Sherlock's hair and stroking his back soothingly.

"You'll always come back," Sherlock said suddenly. "Those are my terms. You always come back."

John nodded. "Always."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Having decided that I actually want to try to write John's story while he is in the army properly, rather than skipping through and over it, there will only be two more chapters of this fic, then a sequel. I will be going back to NatS for a bit and catching that up so there will be a break between the end of this and the sequel.

Upcoming Chapters:

_**"Just Us"**_ – Sherlock and John navigate how their relationship has changed now that Sherlock is sober.

_**"Let them go**_" – Sherlock is bored, bored, bored! Meanwhile, John's training date is getting closer and closer.


	30. Just Us

**Chapter Summary**: Sherlock and John navigate how their relationship has changed now that Sherlock is sober.

* * *

Just Us

John's heart beat steadily underneath his ear. Clearly exhausted, John had fallen asleep relatively quickly after Sherlock had turned to him.

Wriggling out from under John's arm Sherlock sat up, studying him. John looked far healthier than ever before; his skin was smooth with a hint of tan; clearly he had been exercising and eating properly.

It was good.

Keeping an eye on John's calm face, Sherlock plucked at the pyjama sleeve wanting to examine the scar in more detail, but he had no real way of doing so unless he woke John up. Or cut the sleeve.

Neither would be taken well, he thought with a slight smile. John was beyond petulant when woken up for what he deemed to be no good reason.

Sliding out of the bed, Sherlock plucked up the dressing gown he had discarded earlier and wandered downstairs, knowing his mother, in her attempts to plump him up, she would probably wish to start annoyingly early in the morning.

There were some things he would prefer her not to walk in on.

Mycroft sat at the table, fully dressed with a scone and tea.

Their mother was no-where to be seen.

"He stayed then," Mycroft said buttering a slice. "You have solved your latest drama?"

Ignoring Mycroft, Sherlock swept a gaze over the kitchen counter, the sink, the table.

Their mother wasn't up yet. Doubtless she had heard part of his and John's argument last night and had assumed Sherlock wouldn't be up.

It was gratifying to know that he might be able to hide the insomnia from her.

He turned around to leave.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft sounded annoyed now. "You will have to talk to me eventually."

Sherlock turned, met his eyes and walked out of the room.

* * *

Life at his mother's was extraordinarily dull. The woman seemed determined to stuff his mouth with all manner of cakes and sweets at every turn he made. Attempting to bribe John into eating them was useless, apparently she dropped off such 'treats' to John's flat every week and he spent the next six days palming most of it off onto his friends, though John did seem to have a strange weakness for any form of biscuit.

Within a week Sherlock was going out of his mind. He was bored enough to almost stop giving Mycroft the silent treatment.

Things needed to change.

* * *

Sherlock stared resolutely at the lap-top screen as John walked in from class. There was a three and a half second pause as John saw him and froze, then the door was shut and John dumped his bag on the table.

"Coffee," Sherlock announced, bored as he searched for something, anything, to catch his interest.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John nod distractedly as he walked into his room.

Seven seconds, Sherlock predicted, fingers tapping the count.

Annoyingly he only got to five before John turned back into the room. "You do know this will mean she'll dump twice as much food on the doorstep?" John asked, his voice betraying no signs of anxiety or nervousness at the sight of Sherlock's things in his room.

"The door locks," Sherlock glared at the screen as if it was to blame for his lack of success at finding anything, "Or we could pass it around the estate."

John snorted, "Yeah…that won't look weird at all," with a great sigh he went silent and didn't move from his position.

"Problem?"

"No," John shook his head as he wandered back into Sherlock's field of vision. "We were fine the last time we lived together," he shrugged. "You gonna be alright?"

Sherlock frowned at the screen.

* * *

That night when he finally stirred from the sofa to attempt sleep, John was sprawled out in the bed, t-shirt and boxers on.

Perching on the edge of the bed, Sherlock studied John carefully. There was no doubt that John was asleep; his mouth was slack and under his lids his eyes flickered with dreams. Satisfied, Sherlock stared at the lamp before reaching over and carefully turning it on.

As expected, John barely stirred. Shifting on the bed, Sherlock lifted the sleeve of John's t-shirt until it was bunched at his shoulder.

The scars were messy. Ripped, like strands of thread criss-crossing John's bicep where Victor must have dragged the needle through flesh, tiny freckle like marks where he had plunged in again and again.

It had been a brutal attack. Full of fury and rage.

The court case had been a month ago; it had incensed him that he hadn't been well enough to leave for it. Mycroft had ensured that Victor was far beyond Sherlock's reach by the time he was fit and well.

That was something Sherlock wasn't quite sure he'd ever be able to forgive; especially coupled with the stunt he'd pulled with John.

Still, it was hard to know what to do. A strong, bubbling feeling was brewing inside of him, the need to just do something, anything. Not even just for John and for justice at what had happened but for the sheer need to do something.

John stirred, turning slightly towards Sherlock, his legs curling in a defensive position.

Too young, Sherlock thought staring down at him, too young for bloody everything.

There would be no sleep tonight, the same as what felt like nearly every other night since he'd been more level headed.

He needed to go for a walk.

* * *

"You aren't sleeping," John said a few days later.

"I need to find something to do," Sherlock snapped.

There was a long sigh in reply and John sat down opposite him on the table staring pointedly at the lap-top until, frustrated, Sherlock put it to one side.

"There's plenty for you to do," John started to say.

"And very little that won't place me back in certain situations with people who offer out cocaine like it was sugar," Sherlock replied glaring at the back wall.

"You could always play legally sanctioned poker," John pointed out.

"Dull," and it was. Far too easy when people just played without cheating. Where was the fun in that?

* * *

It was so…strange.

For the umpteenth time since he'd moved in with John, Sherlock stared down at his sleeping form, trying to work out what the problem was.

He wanted to touch him, hold him. That desperate feeling of still wanting to press himself into John until he could feel the beating heart and steady lungs still lurked somewhere within his blood; the gnawing need that had almost erupted when John had been in the hospital. There was a fierce ache to kiss him, taste skin under his lips and feel John's warmth and under that was the urge to see him sigh and arch up to Sherlock; trusting and willing.

But it was as if there was some strange barrier now. John would look at him unsure and hopeful at the same time before his shoulders would slump in disappointment, before the hand that was reaching towards Sherlock would drop, despondent and worried.

Sherlock had never thought of himself as a tactile person; he could usually stand his mother's hugs and gentle perfume rich kisses to the cheek, but that had always been it. Sex had been about the high…everything had been about the high. The joy of mastering a new art, of taking someone to pieces and being in control of them, the surge of orgasm. It had never really struck him how much he and John had touched; gentle brushes of hands to backs or sides as they passed by each other, kisses to the forehead when John stood by him. It was as if John were a magnet and Sherlock needed to touch to confirm that he was safe, alive, happy.

He had never had a problem touching John, even when they had been 'friends'.

He knew what he wanted. To brush lips over the scar, to kiss at the pulse in John's throat and feel it. To bury himself into John and keep him apart from the world.

But he didn't, couldn't bring himself to make the move.

And, no matter how many nights he stood over John watching him, he couldn't work out why.

* * *

John jumped to his feet nervously when Sherlock walked through the flat's front door.

Sherlock smelled Chanel No5 and there was a cake on the side.

"What did she say?" he asked, closing the door with some resignation. "Or give to you," he added seeing John's eyes worriedly glance at the closed bedroom door.

"I…I told her that you haven't been sleeping," John shifted.

Sherlock imagined that had gone down well, "And she didn't stay to nag?" he asked snidely.

"No," John was watching him carefully, in a way that made Sherlock's hackles raise. "But she did have a suggestion," he glanced at the bedroom again.

May as well get it over with, though what she had brought over, Sherlock couldn't even begin to imagine.

Stalking over he yanked the door open and then just stared.

On the bed was a violin case.

"Your mum said it would soothe you when you were a teenager. She said you composed."

Composed, that had been what he had called it when his father had complained that the noise coming from the violin was not the sweet lulling sounds of the classics, but deep ragged screeching as Sherlock took out all his frustrations at the world with the instrument.

Despite himself, Sherlock reached out and traced the joins of the case.

"I didn't know you played an instrument," John said sadly. "It oddly suits you, the picture I have in my head," he amended quickly. "I can see you with a violin."

There was a longing in John's voice that made Sherlock's fingers press deeper into the leather.

"Mycroft," John seemed very hesitant now, probably because Sherlock refused to acknowledge the name, "He said that you would play what you felt; that was why you enjoyed making up new compositions. That you'd torture the thing just to relax a little and work your way through what you were feeling."

Of course Mycroft had figured that out and felt the need to spread the news. Sherlock could feel his lip curling in irritation.

"I have been told it is not pleasant to listen to me play," Sherlock drew his hand back.

"I want to hear," John said stubbornly.

Surprised, Sherlock turned to him. John was staring fixatedly at the duvet, jaw tight in worry.

"I…you look at me and you see everything," John said sounding dreadfully nervous. "You know my mind. I want…" he looked up at Sherlock hopefully, "I want to hear yours, to know how you're feeling, even if you can't tell me."

Lost, John looked lost. Adrift and strangely alone.

Abandoning the case, Sherlock stepped towards John and watched a slight flicker of something between worry and fear cross his face as John stared at him. Slowly, infinitely slowly, Sherlock bent his lips to John's. The faintest chaste brush of lips that made his skin vibrate and nerves tingle. John's breath hitched hopefully and Sherlock brushed forward again and again.

Then harder, as if a dam had broken suddenly. John stretched up to meet his touches and they battled with their tongues over and over until Sherlock was almost dizzy with it.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered in between kisses.

John clutched at him harder. How had he not known that still? How had he thought that Sherlock had changed his mind?

"I need you," he added, dragging his lips from John's and tracing his jaw line with kisses as his hands dropped to pull at John's t-shirt. Dragging it over John's head he allowed the few seconds pause in which his lips weren't attached to John in some way and then dived back as if starving.

Under his fingers John was just as warm as he remembered; smooth skin and lines of muscle, tissue and bone that Sherlock traced with his fingers as John plucked at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. There was a brief moment where Sherlock caught a glimpse of the still open bedroom door and twisted them both a little so he could kick the door shut without breaking from John's hold. Seconds later his shirt fell to the floor with a quiet thump and John's hands were tracing over his chest.

Sliding a hand through John's hair, Sherlock kissed his lips again, harder, firmer than before and John groaned into his mouth, eager and blessedly responsive. After so many torturous days of watching him sleep, Sherlock could never see a day where he wouldn't be grateful for John simply just reacting.

His free hand slid down John's back until he hit the jean's waistband and dipped his hand underneath. John pressed against him encouragingly and Sherlock slipped his hand out and around to the front, popping the button and sliding down the zip.

Walking John backwards to the bed, Sherlock pushed at the material with both hands, sliding it down enough that when he bent, one arm around John's waist and the other reaching and then bracing on the mattress as they tilted then lay flat, he could pull at the jeans and boxers with ease, encouraging them the rest of the way down, then tossing them to one side as John reached over and awkwardly manoeuvred the case to the floor.

Part of him wanted to duck down John's body, to explore and ensure nothing had changed, that his memory of John was perfect, but he couldn't bring himself to leave John's lips or throat or cheeks or collarbone. Needed to be stretched out over him instead of ducking down and leaving John bare and open but his hands roamed freely; spider-webbing over skin.

One of John's hands had vanished and in the silence of the room Sherlock could hear the crash of the drawer against their breathing. Without looking, he swept a hand along John's arm and plucked the lube from him, coating his fingers and then pressing in, swallowing John's moans.

For the first time since he'd done this the aim wasn't the end.

It felt like an age to work John open, to the point where his fingers were nearly cramping from the effort. Every gasp and whimper was breathed in, every cry devoured. And just as he could hear the word start to form on John's lips Sherlock pulled back a little, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth and looking down to strip off his trousers.

John sucked in a breath and when Sherlock looked back up at him he was wide eyed, biting his lip and the smallest smile was starting to form. Out of habit Sherlock started to reach for the drawer again, and then paused suddenly unsure.

Seeing it John reached up and dragged a hand through Sherlock's hair. "It's fine," he said, shifting a little. "Whichever."

Sherlock closed his hand over the condoms and John's expression didn't shift or change a millimetre. Ducking his head to kiss John again, Sherlock shifted them carefully as he put the condom on. Reluctantly he sat back and lifted John's legs over his shoulders, before leaning over to watch his face.

John's eyes darted between Sherlock's eyes and down as if unsure which he should look at. Lining himself up, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead and pushed gently.

John panted against the skin of his throat, hands suddenly gripped at Sherlock's upper arms. Tense and tight he gasped raggedly into Sherlock.

It seemed too obvious to tell him to relax, to breathe. Sherlock just pressed small kisses to his face, encouraging with slow movements until John's grip on his arms lessened and he started to calm his breathing. Sherlock eased in carefully, noting the sweat that was starting to bead John's forehead and the breaths that were turning in tone. The tension drained away and John gasped with ease beneath him

Taking it as encouragement, Sherlock pressed in firmer, kissing John's lips and smiling as John started to meet him, thrust for thrust. John grinned and arched back, letting Sherlock sweep his mouth over John's wonderful throat, to feel the cries before they left John. Picking up the pace a little he looked up to check John's reaction and stared at the bright eyes and happy smile.

"Missed you," John whispered.

Sherlock buried his head into the crook of John's neck and shoulders and nodded, reaching for John's hand, silently grateful to whatever was out there that he had waited until it was just them.

This was something he wouldn't have changed for anything.

* * *

Curled up with John pressed into him Sherlock stared down at the scar, tracing it with his fingers.

"He's in prison," John murmured, "Stop going over it. He was behind bars so quickly I doubt his feet touched the floor."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered with some venom. "His doing."

"I swear you sound angry?" John tried to move but Sherlock placed his hand firmly on John's side for a moment to stop him. When John settled, Sherlock lifted it and again stroked the raised skin. "Why wouldn't you want him put away?"

Sherlock just kept his fingers moving carefully.

"Sherlock?"

"I would have killed him."

There was a moment where Sherlock could see John trying to turn that into an exaggeration, a useless hyperbole used for effect and then saw his back stiffen when John realised it was nothing more than the simple truth.

"You…"

"You would be gone for years in the army. I'd probably have been released by the time you got back properly," Sherlock informed him as if they were talking about the weather.

"You planned it?"

Sherlock nodded. "It doesn't matter now." Five years. He could revisit the issue in five years and chose an option then. "Does that concern you?"

"A bit," John said honestly. "You've just offered to kill a man for me."

"I would," Sherlock said, finger following the faint vein beneath the skin. "For you, I would."

John was silent for a moment, "You didn't," he said slowly, "You stayed with me, at the hospital."

It had been unthinkable to leave, "Yes."

"If I asked you not to…would you?"

"I…" Sherlock dropped his hand away from John's arm. "I would argue," he said stubbornly, "Until you saw sense."

John sniggered slightly and reached back for him. "I love you too," he said and turned a little, relaxed and calm. "So…" he looked pointedly at the violin case. "Go on."

* * *

Sitting naked but for the covers, Sherlock studied the bow having tuned the violin carefully. John lay curled up around him, looking tired but sated and would every so often draw patterns into Sherlock's thigh.

Raising the instrument to his chin in a move half remembered, Sherlock pulled the bow across the strings, listening to the notes and feeling the last pulling, dragging weight of tension halt as if the bow had sliced through his skin, a blade and barrier to the gnawing need that crept in the back of his mind.

A few of the easier classical pieces drifted through his head and he played slowly, noting the transitions he had difficulty with and the necessity of practice to improve the dexterity of his fingers and arm movements. John remained silent.

Waiting.

Dropping the violin from his chin, Sherlock put the bow in the hand that was holding the violin and reached down to stroke through John's hair, his mind trying to focus on what he wanted.

"Just play," John said quietly.

It seemed as good advice as any. Lifting the bow and violin again Sherlock played, losing himself in the music, the feeling of actually being able to concentrate on something again, something that wiped through his mind and sharpened it again instead of being swallowed by the feeling of dust; as if he were a great mass of it that was just breaking apart and falling everywhere without pattern. This was like collecting it all back up again and padding it together, honing his mind.

And so, so slowly the tension drained finally, and all he could play was a thank you.

* * *

**Final Chapter: **

**"Let them go"**" – Sherlock is bored, bored, bored! Meanwhile, John's training date is getting closer and closer.

* * *

Author's Note:

I am still debating the title of the sequel but I will add it at the end of the next chapter along with what will be the synopsis for the next fic. I will have a slight break from this series to focus on the Ava Watson verse but at least that way you can keep an eye out for the next part! :)


	31. Let them go

Author's Note

The final chapter! Can I just say a huge thank you to everyone who has read this; I've had such fun writing this and will be looking forward to writing the sequel once I've caught up with myself a bit on other projects.

Huge, massively big thank you to Eowyn and lutz-chan for their patience and betaing of thsi fic since ch17! They have been wonderful and have helped improve this fic so much :)

* * *

"Let them go."

Chapter Summary: Sherlock is adrift without purpose, while John's leaving date is getting closer and closer.

* * *

"**If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were."**

* * *

**13th**** May**

As a kid, Andy had lived pretty close to one of _those _hospitals; you know, the ones that were filled with the crazy people. It had meant putting up with one old lady who was convinced their house was the local fish and chip shop, a man who had some rather odd calling for blue cheese and a sweet old lady who was utterly convinced she could talk to ghosts.

So he'd had some preparation for this exact moment. The moment Sherlock Holmes declared he was bored.

Or maybe not. After all, what could prepare him for the moment that Sherlock pushed all the furniture in their living room to one side and started to undo anything that was fixed together with a screw? The clock that John's mum had delivered (probably because it was too old for her more modern taste) had kept Sherlock occupied for half an hour.

John, when he had come in, had paused, looked around and then shrugged.

That was either extreme coolness or extreme stupidity, Andy hadn't worked out which yet.

"So you're bored," Andy said, watching Sherlock cautiously.

"Yes," Sherlock was now attempting to pull the toaster apart.

"Most people just have a wank," Andy told him frankly.

"I have John."

Well…yeah, okay. Andy frowned as he tried to work out what to say in response. "Go do him then."

"He has his exams coming up." Sherlock pulled the contraption apart, stared at the insides with what looked like disappointment and tossed it to one side. "Obvious," he muttered to himself and then stood to look for the next victim.

Andy looked down at their carpet, strewn with metal and screws and cogs and the carcasses of their various household items.

When he looked back up, Sherlock was examining the playstation thoughtfully.

Crap!

"You could always try and put it all back together," Andy said hopefully.

"Why?" Sherlock turned to him with what seemed to be genuine confusion, "I know what goes where."

How? Andy looked at the mess and nodded, "Yeah but sometimes it doesn't all fit back together the way you think it will," he replied, thinking of his Dad screeching at the flat packs they had brought home from Argos.

Sherlock tilted his head staring at the pile. "The clock," he said, mercifully putting the playstation down, "I'll put that back together." He sounded like a child, bargaining to stay up later than usual.

"What about the rest of it?" Andy complained.

"Dull."

That was the word of the month. If Andy never heard the word for another fifty years it would be too soon.

Sherlock was a fucking lunatic.

John, biscuit in mouth, wandered out of his room and headed towards the kitchen, stepping over screws and wood and metal with ease, clearly aiming for the kettle.

"Tell him to tidy up," Andy whined.

"Tell him to shut up," Sherlock sulked back.

John paused and turned, looking at them both with a raised eyebrow and swallowed the digestive. "You are aware I'm not your mother. Both of you!"

"He's threatening the playstation," Andy hissed in panic. Then winced as, having revealed his weakness, Sherlock turned his attention back to it thoughtfully.

The fact that John looked a little bit worried made Andy grin and he almost stuck his tongue out at Sherlock in triumph. John looked at his watch, then at his room.

"Two hours," he announced. "If everything is back together perfectly in two hours then…" John chewed his lip for a moment thinking. Andy looked over at Sherlock who was narrowing his gaze at John.

"…We'll go to your mothers and have sex on Mycroft's bed."

What?!

Andy blinked at John and screwed up his face, "Mate, that's nuts. He's not gonna-" But Sherlock had already picked up the screwdriver and was reconstructing the toaster with ease.

John just shrugged and flicked the kettle on. "Cuppa?" he asked Andy who stared, sure his flatmate was just as fucking mad as Sherlock; just a lot sneakier about it.

"Yeah," Andy collapsed on the sofa in the corner, "Why not?"

* * *

**15th**** May**

"So," John asked, breathless against the sheets. "Not an inventor then?"

Sherlock was using the bed covers to wipe himself off. "No."

"You know your mother will come in here and will have the sheets washed?"

"I have a key to lock the door," Sherlock almost beamed and then looked around, "It's a hideous room, you can almost feel the starch," he complained.

"Cracking good bed though," John grinned.

Sherlock nodded, then frowned. "You're going to tell her aren't you, and have the sheets washed?"

John gave him a look, "Yeah I can imagine that conversation. 'Hi Violet, I just protected Sherlock from being throttled by my flatmate by bargaining having wild sex in your oldest son's room and now Sherlock wants to leave the sheets unwashed. Be a love would you and pop the spunk soaked sheets in the wash?'." John stared at Sherlock, "Mm, yes. I'm so looking forward to that conversation."

"You will." Sherlock stretched, "Though if you truly are going to use phrases like 'wild sex' and 'spunk soaked sheets', may I watch?"

John groaned.

* * *

**21****st**** May**

"What are you doing?" Violet asked staring in disbelief at her youngest son and the mess he'd made.

In the kitchen!

There were pots and pans everywhere, all manner of strange vegetable, meat, fruit and spices piled up on every available surface. Kitchen machines were all out, their various parts scattered over the table.

And Sherlock was sitting on a kitchen chair, thumbing through a magazine about the solar system as if completely at home in the midst of such chaos.

Which, she supposed, he was.

"If you require me to explain the process of reading then-"

"What did you do to the kitchen?"

Sherlock looked up as if the word kitchen was foreign and looked about himself. "Experiment," he said after a moment.

"Sherlock-"

"It's in the fridge," Sherlock turned a page, his nose turning up at whatever article it was that he was reading.

It wasn't drugs. She had to take some comfort in the fact that it wasn't every drug substance known to man laid out in her kitchen. Calm and flexible, that was how John usually dealt with this onslaught.

With some trepidation, Violet opened the fridge.

There were plates and plates of beautiful food in front of her; a mix of dishes from all around the world.

Her son, her child, had made this?

Almost crying she turned to him, "You can cook?" she started, delighted and already picturing perhaps, just perhaps, she and Sherlock might have a hobby they could share, a sphere of joint interest that-

"Deleted it. Dull," Sherlock announced flipping through the magazine now, as if hoping something might just leap out at him.

It was silly to be disappointed, dreadfully silly. She of all people knew Sherlock better than that. But she stared at the food a little longer, wondering if it was foolish that she wanted to get a picture of what he had done, so she could always remember what he could have chosen to do with his life.

The chair scrapped as if Sherlock was standing.

"And the mess?" she asked, unable to keep the disapproval out of her voice.

"You pay people more than enough-"

Violet closed the fridge and watched Sherlock bristle, eyes narrowing and readying himself to be especially petulant.

Think of John, what would he do?

Sherlock's gaze suddenly narrowed and he seemed to be waiting for something.

"If you do, I will let you insult Aunt Murial all the way through Mycroft's birthday party," she bargained.

Sherlock's lip twitched in amusement, clearly seeing her ploy and why she was using it. "Really?" he asked, sounding doubtful.

"She accused me once of being a gold digger," Violet shook away the memory of being eighteen, desperately nervous and humiliated. "I have no objections save your lack of manners."

"No."

"No?" She repeated stunned, "Sherlock I have just given you-"

"Though I promise she will not enjoy the next time we are in shared company," Sherlock promised wolfishly.

It was terrible that the promise warmed her heart and the glare of protectiveness that was usually only turned at John was suddenly aimed at her. Softening, she smiled at him.

"Sherlock," she said firmly. "Please tidy the kitchen. Anna is away this weekend."

Looking annoyed, Sherlock opened the door and wandered out.

Violet sighed and shook her head and turned to deal with the mess of half diced up vegetables and a few sorry looking onions that had been peeled within an inch of their lives. Pulling on a piece of kitchen paper she swallowed deeply, not sure why she had expected more when-

Then Sherlock walked back in. "She left her coat," he said sounding put out.

"It's summer dear, she didn't need it."

"Always something," Sherlock muttered in annoyance. Then, with a large huff, opened the cupboard with the bin, pulled it out and started sliding everything into it.

That? That was it? That was all it would have taken? A bit of patience, a sense of humour and allowing Sherlock to work out whatever was occupying his mind before he did the task?

That was all they should have done?

Sherlock gave her an odd look and slid the onions out from under her nose and rolled them into the bin. "You shouldn't breathe through your nose when onions are cut; it makes you cry."

Her brilliant boy could be so dense sometimes.

* * *

**12****th**** June**

John walked in and Andy smiled at him sweetly.

Crap!

Stomach sinking like a stone, John almost ran into his room to stare at Sherlock who had dumped every item of clothing John had on the bed and was proceeding to put a lot of it in a bin liner.

"What are you doing?" John asked nervously.

"Bored," Sherlock replied woodenly and reached for a jumper, then hesitated.

"That wasn't what I asked you," John folded his arms firmly.

Sherlock threw the jumper angrily into the wardrobe, "You have eyes," he said in that 'don't be so bloody stupid John, it's obvious what I'm doing' tone, "Use them."

One day, one day John would get better at this and learn to ask 'why' and 'how' before wasting his time and patience with 'what' questions. "Why are you throwing away my clothes?"

"Someone today told me I could model."

Torn between agreement, jealousy and simple bafflement, John sat on the bed, watching Sherlock. "How does this lead to you throwing out my clothes?" he asked pained.

"I don't want to model."

John scratched an ear, "Again, how does that lead us to this?"

"You can tell so much from the way people dress," Sherlock looked up at him, "I could help people not give themselves away."

John stared at him, "You…what?"

Sherlock held up a t-shirt. "For instance, this t-shirt is terribly wrinkled and pulled at the sleeve, but the other is fine. Your arms are of similar size which means someone tugged it, hard enough to ruin the seam. You therefore have a partner who pulled at the sleeve of your shirt which means there is something on your arm that he wanted to see; it's hardly a line that would be affected if this had been torn off of you like this one was," he held up another for comparison.

Right. Okay. John nodded, as if that had made sense and he could see the vague wrinkle that Sherlock was banging on about.

"What if you didn't want people to notice that? How would you hide it?"

"I'd put a fucking blindfold on you!" John crashed back against the pillows. "You are seriously overestimating people if-"

"People make clothes their life, they can tell these things. I can advise them on how to keep their secrets secret."

Okay, so that sort of made sense. But John could feel a bubble of laughter welling up and he pressed his lips together.

"What?" Sherlock glared at him. "Of course I can tell people's lives from their clothing; it's beyond obvious-"

"No, I don't doubt that," John grinned. "I don't doubt that at all."

"Then why are you trying not to laugh?"

"I…take me shopping," John offered suddenly. "And every time I think you'll lose a client from what you're saying, I'll say 'oops'."

Sherlock glared, "I can be tactful."

"Yes," John nodded. "Let's just see."

* * *

"Oops," John sighed dramatically, "That's five clients you've lost before we're on the correct floor."

"You are being hyper sensitive to prove a stupid point."

John stopped and glared at him, "I hardly think-"

"Gentlemen?" A smart dressed man suddenly seemed to appear from out of no-where, "May I offer some assistance?"

"Uh…" John gaped at him, "I-"

"We are shopping for a new wardrobe," Sherlock suddenly declared.

John threw him a startled look. What?

"Ahh," the man nodded, "Well, my name is Neil and we are offering a free service today to promote the new personal shopper service." Neil beamed, "Could I be of assistance?"

"Of course-"

John held up a finger to Neil indicating he wanted a pause and then grabbed Sherlock by the elbow, pulling him slightly away.

"I bet," he said, "that however obnoxious and difficult you are, this man will not insult, demean or even glare at you."

Sherlock pulled back and glanced at Neil, "In twenty minutes when I am proved right I want you to walk into the nearest sex shop, buy something that you think is unusual and meet me at the flat for instruction."

"And in an hour when I'm proved right I want you to put my clothes away neatly," John argued, "Then I will have room to pound you into the mattress."

Sherlock sniffed, nodded and turned around. "I suppose we might get some use out of you," he said to Neil who had been looking rather confused at their whispers.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock was looking rather flustered.

"What is wrong with him?" he asked John beseechingly. "Did you tell him what we were doing?"

John shook his head, "Nope," he said sweetly. "He took one look at your shirt and pound signs began to roll in front of his eyes."

Sherlock glanced down at his shirt and sighed, looking around.

"I said obnoxious and rude. You can't utterly humiliate or destroy things," John fiddled with the watch strap. "There, what do you think?"

"Not your style," Sherlock said loudly as Neil returned.

"Oh is it not?" Neil said, sounding apologetic, even though Sherlock had demanded the ostentatious watch for John. "Perhaps another look at the earlier suggestions, sometimes too much choice makes it worse."

More than one option made it worse in John's opinion. But he nodded and smiled, undoing the watch.

"And sir? If I may?" Neil offered Sherlock a few coats on a hanger. "Though I must say this one, I think, would truly suit you."

John looked up expecting Sherlock to make some snide comment, but Sherlock was actually eying the hangers thoughtfully.

"You," Neil said turning to John, "I think short jackets would be best. You have good proportions and we want to show that off-"

"Good proportions?" Sherlock echoed looking at John.

Yes, he was short. Fuck off!

Neil looked panicked for a moment then laughed easily, "Sir, that's really far too much information," he said and winked at John before disappearing off through the racks.

John slid down the chair. "You have two more minutes," he threatened. "Then I am running out of the shop before I hear more about fabric and patterns." He looked up at Sherlock.

Then grinned.

Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror head cocked to the side as he stared. The coat was long, tailored and well…Sherlock-like.

Catching John's look in the mirror, Sherlock actually flushed in embarrassment and pulled the coat off quickly. "Fine, you have made your point," he said snottily. "I would not have the patience to deal with idiots. Or moronically dull colleagues."

He swept out, "Get a coffee," he said over his shoulder. "I'll finish the room in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock sounded beyond annoyed, though whether at himself or John he wasn't sure.

"Oh…has your partner gone?" Neil said the word carefully, as if remembering the snappish reply he'd gotten from Sherlock at the boyfriend comment earlier.

John nodded, suddenly guilty, and looked down.

At the coat.

* * *

"Two more minutes," Sherlock snapped as John walked in.

"Close your eyes," John ordered, "I've changed my mind about what I want for winning."

"Little late," Sherlock muttered mutinously, but closed his eyes all the same, as if anything was better than folding the last seven items.

"Arms," John ordered and saw Sherlock frown as he obeyed. John slid the coat up and over Sherlock's shoulders. "I wasn't…I didn't mean to sound as if it was a stupid idea, I just meant…those people don't deserve you," he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's throat. "You can make a real difference you idiot."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at the coat. "You cannot afford-"

"Yeah…cause I have to pay rent for the next gazillion years while I train to be a doctor and earn a wage."

Sherlock was frowning at him.

"And I cut the label out," John added with a smile. "You can't return it."

Sherlock laughed and adjusted the coat. "Should I be concerned you wish to dress me instead of fucking me?"

"Well," John shrugged, "I guess we have to adhere to some stereotypes!"

His laugh was a full chuckle as Sherlock turned to kiss him.

* * *

**20****th**** June**

"No," John said, plucking the paper from Sherlock's hands gently.

"What do you mean no?" Sherlock turned to follow John with his eyes as John walked into the kitchen.

John put the letter replying to Sherlock's enquiry on the counter. "Sit down, turn around and be quiet," he snapped.

"No, we are having a conversation…" Sherlock's face twisted as he caught on to John's point, "I can take orders," he huffed, perching on the arm of the chair.

John nodded, "Okay then, suppose you and I are in the army and I'm being attacked and your orders are to go and save a different unit?"

Sherlock stared and then let out a fierce snarl as he grabbed his coat and stormed out.

John stared and suddenly smiled.

Sherlock couldn't leave the coat anywhere.

* * *

That night Sherlock crawled in next to him, fully dressed.

"Here," he said pressing something into John's hand.

Closing his fingers around it, John smoothed a thumb around the shape, feeling a chain and something…

"It's a bullet."

John turned in the bed to look up at Sherlock in the half light of the streetlamp.

"It's the only one allowed to touch you," Sherlock whispered, wrapping his arms around him and taking the chain and bullet from John's hand and lifting it over his head, pulling on it to pull John up to a kiss.

Sometimes John was almost certain that Sherlock was convinced that sheer will power could make something true.

But then, if anyone could make it true it would be Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**8****th**** July**

John hefted his bag, grinning at Sherlock and unable to remember the last time he'd felt so utterly nervous. "Eight weeks," he reminded Sherlock. "I'll be back then."

Sherlock nodded, a shadow in his eyes. "I am aware of how long it will be John," he said softly, sounding sad.

The tone of his voice made John step forward, cupping a hand around Sherlock's neck and pulling him down a little so their foreheads touched. "I'll miss you," John said firmly, tightening his grip slightly.

In response, Sherlock just tilted his chin and caught John's lips briefly, nodding before he stepped back. Over his shoulder John glanced at the police barriers across the road and then back at Sherlock's face, suddenly so aware of how alone and unprotected he was leaving Sherlock. Catching the momentary flicker, Sherlock turned. "Burglary gone wrong," he declared, turning back to John. "Do not worry about me."

"Right," John shrugged with a mischievous wink, "I'll have enough worries tomorrow morning when I have to do a thousand push-ups or something."

Sherlock snorted.

And then, far behind Sherlock, was a man ducking under the tape while holding a coffee, who looked very familiar. John frowned trying to place him and Sherlock huffed, turning. "If I were more sentimental I would be hideously displeased by the lack of attention you are giving me."

"If you were less egotistical maybe I'd believe that," John teased. "Where do I know him from?"

"Detective Lestrade," Sherlock said after a second's thought. "He arrested me."

"Ah," John nodded and waited for Sherlock to turn back.

But Sherlock suddenly had a thoughtful look on his face. Amused, John glanced between Sherlock's face and the crime scene, then up at the departure board.

"You know," he said slowly, "The word of a well-dressed, sober, highly intelligent man might be taken more seriously than that of a strung out, argumentative addict."

"Are you implying I am no longer argumentative?" Sherlock asked, eyes still glued to the scene across the road.

John reached out and squeezed his hand. Jolting a little, Sherlock looked down at their hands and then turned back to John, looking a little guilty.

Why the hell hadn't either of them thought of this? That moment over a year ago where Sherlock, tired, high and on almost no sleep had solved a murder case with a glance.

Sherlock could barely keep his eyes on John.

Pulling him closer John finally felt something in him settle. The gnawing guilt that he had been leaving Sherlock aimless (and Andy alone with Sherlock while he was aimless) just faded. And so John leaned up a little to reach Sherlock's ear.

"Could be dangerous," he said, a smile in his voice as he kissed him gently under the lobe and pulled back, walking backwards and away from Sherlock, nodding his head towards the crime tape pointedly.

Sherlock was staring at him part stunned, part delighted as he risked another look at the crime scene.

Then suddenly he let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Then nodded and turned.

The last glimpse John had of Sherlock was of him striding in that ridiculously sexy coat towards the police tape, shoulders set and chin raised in determination.

John glanced at the officers and shook his head, momentarily wondering what he had started, then hefted his bag and turned to his train.

* * *

The End

* * *

Author's Note

Firstly, if anyone has any army based prompts/Sherlock getting into the role of consulting detective prompts then please let me know. I will be trying to weave canon in so things like canon characters (i.e Mrs Hudson, Donovan, Anderson) will appear and objects such as the skull will be added in, but if there is anything else you really want to see then either add it into a review or PM me with requests.

Secondly the sequel:

"_**One fixed point in a changing age**_"

Having spent two years travelling back and forth all over the world, John is returning home to be certified as a fully fledged doctor and start his officers training. Sherlock, having spent the past two years popping up in the random hospitals John has been training in and collecting god knows how many types of poisons, seems to have finally convinced Scotland Yard that he might be worth the chance, and the accompanying headache!

The title comes from "His last Bow" and reads as follows -

_You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared._


	32. Epilogue: Messages

**Chapter Summary: **

Snippets of text conversations for the two years in between 'Back in the Day' and 'One Fixed Point in a Changing Age' between John and Sherlock.

**Author's Note**

The sequel will start again this Sunday. As I'm a little busier now I think I will be trying for a weekly update on a sunday. Because John and Sherlock do spend a great deal of time apart, I will be flashing back and using these text messages to help tie in their storylines.

Also, the chapters have been edited for silly mistakes. I imagine there may still be one or two still lurking around but it should now be a much smoother read should you wish to go back over it at all. Thank you to my lovely betas for all their help with that and any remaining mistakes are my own.

* * *

**July 2004**

Lestrade recognised me. SH

**Yeah? Oh dear :P**

Meaning? SH

**Well it's been ten hours since we said goodbye. Did Mycroft pick you up from the holding cells this time?**

No. SH

**Oh. Sorry. Well, did you help them out?**

No. Mother collected me instead. SH

**You tit! What did you do?**

The officer in charge took offence to being called an ignorant waste of space. SH

**Strange that!**

**August 2004**

**I never want to hear the word press-up again.**

Shame. I wanted to see if it affected your ability during missionary. SH

**Ignore my last message!**

**September 2004**

**My ears haven't popped yet. How do I get them to pop?**

I believe you are the doctor out of the pair of us. SH

**Not yet. Look it up, I'm on a coach. **

Chew something. Or suck something. SH

**Nothing to suck or chew.**

Talk to someone. Yawning helps. SH

**I'm not you. Not everyone I meet is instantly boring.**

You weren't. SH

**Miss you. **

I imagine you do. SH

**October 2004**

John? SH

I will text you inane rubbish every hour until you answer. SH

Fine. Mother has joined a knitting club. I think she's hinting to Mycroft that she requires grandchildren. Mycroft is getting skittish every time they meet. SH

Andy moved out. Or I moved. We both moved. SH

He seemed to think it was some epic break up. He even used lines I have heard him use with former girlfriends. It was mildly disturbing. SH

Lestrade had a baby. Paternity leave is annoying. The other officers won't sneak me in. SH

Lestrade did not appreciate our early morning chat. Evidently he is rattier than you when his sleep is disturbed. SH

A feat I did not think possible. SH

Gay Alf has a new paramour. The man is obnoxiously dull. All muscle and he seems to have an unnatural predilection towards baby oil. SH

**Thirteen hour shift. No phone. Sleep now.**

Bored. SH

**Sleeping. Goaway**

**Luv u btw**

I love you too. Go to sleep. SH

**November 2004**

**Just saw the most disgusting wound. You'd have loved it.**

Describe it. SH

**Foot wound on the base of the heel. A pipe had gone through but it was infected and weirdly looked like mouldy bread.**

**Oh, dead body btw. Lawrence was showing me the morgue. Wouldn't believe the amount of bodies here that have been pulled out of the sea.**

**Sherlock?**

* * *

**You left your notes here. Want me to send them back to you or are you going to use that as your next excuse to visit?**

I hardly need an excuse. The morgue is fascinating. Do you have any connections in London still that will get me into one here? SH

**Like you bloody need help getting in. **

It is easier to focus when you know you are allowed to be in the room. SH

**Mike?**

No. Too sensible. SH

**I'll ask around. No promises. X**

**December 2004**

**If you could have anything for Christmas what would you have?**

My usual. SH

**Which is?**

You. SH

**Knock, k****nock. **

**January 2005**

**I swear to god I am treating more STDs than injuries this week. What the fuck do people do in December?**

That's a little hypocritical from a man who offered to make interesting use of a hairbrush two weeks ago. SH

**It was New Year's. What happens on New Year's is not discussed. **

Apart from with your doctor. SH

**You're meant to be sympathetic!**

Why? SH

**Git.**

**February 2005**

Are you keeping busy today? SH

**Yeah. **

John? SH

**Car accident came in.**

When do you get off tonight? SH

**Seven hours. Could be later. Why?**

I'll be outside. SH

* * *

**I hate it when you go home. **

I hate it when you're not home. SH

**March 2005**

**g jmtd wmt. Gm am gdgmt dmp gmgmg awaw. G mgpp wmt pm mtag. W**

Yes you're an idiot. Your predictive text isn't on. SH

And I miss you too. SH

**April 2005**

**Did you get my Easter egg to you?**

You are a complete child, do you know that? SH

**Then it had better be still in the packet when I get home. I well fancy some Thorntons.**

I didn't say I didn't want it. SH

**Then I expect one from you when I get back.**

Easter has finished. The shops don't sell them. SH

**When exactly does that stop you? **

Touché. SH

**May 2005**

The alcoholic harpy says hello. SH

**Why are you talking to Harry?**

I honestly have no idea. It wasn't my intention. SH

She's discussing rings. SH

I am not comfortable with this discussion. Come home now. SH.

**Sherlock I'm in bloody Germany. What would you like me to do?**

Text her. Call her. Fake your death. Get her out of my flat NOW. SH

I'm serious John. I'm capitalising words. That's how urgent this matter is. SH

Thank you. Though one day she will work out that I hate your mother more than she does. SH

**Good to know. X**

**June 2005**

**You do know that impersonating an officer isn't going to end well?**

Then I suggest you stop texting about it SH

And report to my quarters. Immediately. SH

**July 2005**

**Where are you?**

There was a murder last night. Interesting. SH

**So that's you doing the shopping fucked then I take it?**

Ah. SH

In my defence the police tape was up on route to the shop. SH

**Are you close to the shop now?**

Now? No. Why would I be? SH

**It's been forty five minutes since you left. Where are you? **

Having tea with the suspect. SH

He has milk. SH

**Fine. He'd better not be a poisoner though.**

Will pick milk up when I'm on my way home. SH

**Do not drink that bloody tea!**

**Sherlock?**

**If you've died it's the most stupid death on the planet. **

He poisoned the spoon. Rather ingenious really. SH

* * *

Why did you send me back out again? SH

**Milk!**

**And condoms. And lube. And carrots.**

Interesting addition to the bedroom. SH

**We always have them in the bedroom.**

**Oh! No! Roast dinner. The carrots are for the roast dinner!**

Bought extra. Always advisable to have options. SH

**They're for the dinner!**

You don't need to be embarrassed. SH

**No. Dinner. For dinner. Those carrots are going no-where near anyone's arse!**

Yes dear. SH

**You are not funny.**

**August 2005**

I miss you. I dislike this affliction. SH

**Miss you too.**

No, it's worse this time. I'd forgotten how nice it is to have you around. SH

**I know. I'm sorry.**

**September 2005**

Has the harpy discussed her latest life choice with you? SH

**Yes, my sister has told me she's getting married. Or whatever the equivalent is.**

Has she raised the issue? SH

**Yes, she asked us to attend her wedding.**

And did you discuss our options? SH

**Yes, I accepted and told her we'd pay for her wedding dress.**

That is distinctly not funny. SH

**Why would it be funny?**

John. Do not joke about these matters. SH

**I'm serious. **

I'm ill that day. SH

**The day of her wedding?**

Yes. SH

**The wedding that's taking place in two and a half years time?**

That's…distant. SH

**Yep.**

That's reassuringly distant. SH

**Yep.**

You are aware that knowing the harpy she'll manage to keep Clara fooled just to get that wedding dress. SH

**Well, at least I can't be accused of being cynical. I gave her all the incentive in the world.**

I love you when you're clever. SH

**Don't push it x**

**October 2005**

Murder weapon was a pumpkin. SH

**Well, at least the killer was seasonal. **

**Wait how the hell is a pumpkin used as a murder weapon?**

Give me a chance John, I've only been on the case eight minutes. SH

**Why are you texting this to me? Shouldn't you tell someone?**

Why? It's a bad film. Or do you think the awful dialogue might actually kill someone? SH

Please say yes. I'm bored. SH

**I love you , you idiot. Tape it and I'll watch it with you.**

Christmas? SH

**Not sure. I'm trying.**

Use Mycroft if you have to. SH

**November 2005**

Explain I am threatening terrorism. SH

**That's just a bit not good.**

You not being here is plain not good. Do you think I care about a "bit not good"? SH

Explain! SH

**What? My boyfriend is the devil himself when bored, horny and miserable so please, please, please send me back before he conducts an experiment that might "accidently" level London?**

Partner. Really John, you should use that word automatically now. SH

**December 2005**

**Sorry xxx**

Mycroft took my experiment. He's getting fat. SH

**If it helps I'm being shat upon from a great height. **

Not really. SH

**Sorry.**

**Roses are red, violets are blue. I wish you were here so I could suck you.**

That's dreadful SH

**I know. Surprisingly all the poetical ones have gone home or have transferred. **

You're there. SH

**I'm crap at that stuff.**

I'll forgive you if you give me an acceptable rhyme. SH

John? SH

**Thinking. We aren't all insanely brainy like you.**

Says the doctor. Hurry up I'm bored.

**You really are very handsome.**

**Much more than Tim Dansome.**

**I'm sorry I couldn't come home this week.**

**And that I couldn't kiss your cheek.**

**I'll be home three days after your birthday**

**And I don't want to find a stingray.**

Never rhyme again. That was appalling. SH

**You loved it. **

Idiot. SH

What kind of cheek? SH

And who's Tim Dansome? SH

**January 2006**

**Happy New Year. **

Indeed. SH

**I know you're angry. And I know I can't really help. I can't imagine how much it must hurt knowing I'm choosing this because it means I'm not choosing you. But I promise, you are the most important thing in my life and you are the one I will always come home to.**

Not angry you idiot, I'm on a case. SH

But thank you. SH

**I'll go curl up and die. That took me hours to think of. **

The things you are capable of when you try are truly astounding. SH

**February 2006**

**My head is killing me**

You do not mix well with Champagne. SH

**What did I do?**

Do? SH

**Well, why aren't you here? **

I'm getting us breakfast. SH

**Bacon butties? **

Fry up in a box. Philistine. SH

**Best post Valentine's Day ever.**

**March 2006**

**Bored.**

Shoot something. SH

**You so miss the concept of distracting someone.**

**April 2006**

**Sherlock?**

Yes? SH

**Phone sex?**

Case. Give me twenty minutes. SH

**You'll solve a case in twenty minutes?**

No, I'll send McKenzie for coffee in twenty minutes. SH

**You can't have phone sex in…where are you?**

Evidence locker room. They are watching me like a hawk. SH

**Sherlock! No phone sex.**

You brought it up. SH

**I didn't know you were on the bloody CCTV**

Says you. You're on an army base you moron. Do you not think they monitor rooms?

**You're joking, right?**

**Sherlock?**

**May 2006**

**Actually got a tan!**

Tan lines? SH

**You have a weird fixation. **

If you have a tan line I can't explain I'll let you have an evening where you're in charge. SH

**Are you implying I'm usually not?**

Yes. SH

**So I could gag you for a whole evening and finally watch James Bond in uninterrupted peace?**

Yes. SH

Of course you could have requested that I sit still and act politely and enthusiastically while watching said film. SH

**Wait, I want that.**

Too late. SH

**June 2006**

**Guess what birthday present I got myself.**

You gave yourself a birthday present? That's a little sad John. SH

**Plane tickets.**

How long before you arrive? SH

**You really should label your experiments Sherlock. This guy's already getting pissy about you.**

**PS. Defended your honour. And your experiments. Pick me up a Milky Way bar on your way back x**

**July 2006**

**Meet me at the airport? **

Are you a doctor yet? SH

**Sherlock, will you meet me at the airport or not?**

Yes. How long do we have this time? SH

**Two whole weeks.**


End file.
